tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38177325631453770932018-03-07T16:03:58.733-07:00Idaho to Russia to Korea... and back.Kimberly E. Cochranenoreply@blogger.comBlogger162125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-8971480458521061012016-09-20T09:09:00.001-06:002016-09-20T18:12:49.269-06:00A Yarn About a Sailboat without a Mast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I will apologize ahead of time for the sailing jargon that is about to come your way, but without it, this yarn would have been difficult to spin.</i></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sailors spin yarns. Some spin grandiose yarns, and some retell the same stories over and over. What these yarns teach you is that in sailing the unpredictable and unexpected will occur. To prepare, you listen to experienced sailors as they spin yarns about troubles on the water. You ask questions. You read books about tales of ingenuity and feats of great character and resourcefulness. You may watch YouTube clips or browse the Internet in search of harrowing experiences. You can also pose situations to yourself and troubleshoot theoreticals. But to tell you the truth, nothing prepares you for an event as much as the event itself. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had not been sailing in a while when a friend invited me to join him and the owner of the boat for a Sunday sail. While I was a bit nervous about predicted heavy winds, I thought, as I usually do, if the skipper is comfortable going out, then we will all be okay.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On my way to the clubhouse, I thought about the shiftiness of the wind, the lulls and gusts I saw cascading through the streets, causing flags in close proximity to fly in different directions. I figured that perhaps the buildings were causing interference. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we set up the rigging, I worried about my already slightly queasy stomach on the big waves caused by a passing storm. Normally on days with larger waves, my stomach can throw a bit of a fit, so with a queasy stomach, I wondered how I would fare. I also planned for leaning over the side. One of the great things about sailing and being sick is that you have the water right there. No need to worry about a mess.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, the four of us were off, the owner (a Frenchman), my friend (a British-Belgian), an experienced sailor (a Korean) who was at the helm, and myself (an American). All on board had more experience than I did, and the mix of languages being spoken among the crew was quite fascinating, sometimes instructions or observations were repeated three times, once in each language. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On this small keel, duties were as such: helmsman took the main, the owner took the jib, and the friend who invited me took the gennaker. My hands were empty, so I focused on shifting my weight with the gusts of wind and staying out of the way of working sailors. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I admired the setup of the rigging on the little Open 5.70. It could easily be single-handed, similar to a dinghy.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we sailed further and further from the buildings and shore, the waves grew bigger, the sky a tad darker, and the wind slightly heavier. Gusts would come regularly putting more and more pressure on this small keel boat, but our helmsman kept us at a comfortable heel. We flew the gennaker to take on a little more speed. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Watch the bowsprit as it works with the gennaker, and you will get to see the wonder that is carbon,” my friend directed me. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I watched the elasticity of the bowsprit as the wind hit the gennaker and the bowsprit curved, and I began to wonder what would happen if the bowsprit broke. It seemed like it could be slightly dangerous, but we would probably quickly drop the gennaker and take care of any issues which might accompany a flying bowsprit. I also decided that troubleshooting issues like this while underway might not be the best thing. Though emergency preparedness is important, I am also superstitious. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I shifted my attention from the bowsprit to the gennaker trim, watching as the sail curled ever so gently when properly trimmed. Trying to understand the amount of pressure that was on the sail. With every gust, the trimmer shifted and adjusted the sail trim, and you could hear the gennaker sheet groan as it moved through the blocks. I did not pay much attention to the mainsail or main trim. A flying yellow gennaker against a grey and darkening sky is quite poetic.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I silently waxed poetic, happy that my stomach was behaving, we lunged over a wave. A gust caught our sails. We kept sailing, and the gennaker was adjusted to the wind. We all shifted in our seats. Another gust, another adjustment, another shift. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A stronger gust, the boat heeled. We started to adjust and shift. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Crack!” </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Within a split second after the gust, the sails we had been looking at lay in the water. The mast was down. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As quickly as it happened everyone grabbed something. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The owner grabbed the mast, trying to counterbalance its weight, and keep it from sliding completely into the water. I grabbed for the boom, not really sure what was going to happen but knowing that we had to hold on to the rigging. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the rest of the crew communicated in a mix of French and Korean, I tried to understand how to help and pulled with the rest to try and get the mainsail out of the water. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As soon as the sails were down, and I saw the bare hull, I knew my stomach was doomed. With nothing to take my attention, and not wanting to get in the way, I was doing as told. I was not focused on more than holding a sail and confirming that yes, the mast had broken not just once but twice, preventing the mainsail from easy removal. The helmsman worked on getting the sail apart from the top fragment of the mast, and I sat there taking deep breaths trying to decide which direction I would yak when it finally came to that.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the end, I turned around and retched off the side of the boat, not letting go of the sail, though there was not much pressure on it. As the skipper and crew salvaged the wreckage of a broken mast, I let loose the contents of my stomach into the seas outside of Busan.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the retching episode, I did all that I could. I untied the cunningham as directed. I helped communicate that the lower part of the sail had to come up off of the mast rather than down. I did my best to watch the different things happening around me and help others stay safe. The scariest of which was in the maneuvering of the broken mast, the snarled middle part almost hitting the helmsman in the head. Finally, I helped get the furled jib back on the boat.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After we arranged the wreckage inside the hull on the starboard side, I sat in the middle of the boat and held onto the boom as we zoomed back to the marina with our little outboard motor. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No, zoom is not the right word, but we did slightly better than putter. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was a brief discussion about a possible fuel shortage. A small container filled about a quarter of the way came out of the hold. None of us felt that was very promising, so further discussion resulted in two oars making an appearance. I was happy to see that while fuel planning might have been optimistic, other plans took being stranded out at sea a bit more seriously.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we motored in, because I previously had considered sailing the ship solo, I asked myself, “How would I have dealt with this situation single-handedly?”</span></div><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t think it would have been impossible, but it would not have been as fast as this crew working together, of course.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0cac15f8-4820-2193-4283-bbc65f7ebad2"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline;">Then my friend posed me a question, “What would you do [with a dismasted ship] if you didn’t have an outboard motor or oars?” </span></span></span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0cac15f8-4820-2193-4283-bbc65f7ebad2"></span></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0cac15f8-4820-2193-4283-bbc65f7ebad2"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline;">My immediate reaction, as I looked toward Haeundae Beach and all the buildings was that I would set off a flare, and then he clarified, “Out on the open sea, miles from land.” </span></span></span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0cac15f8-4820-2193-4283-bbc65f7ebad2"></span></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0cac15f8-4820-2193-4283-bbc65f7ebad2"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline;">In that moment, I could not wrap my head around the question. I just was not sure, but as he answered stating that you would have to salvage what you could and make due, I realized that yes, that is exactly what would need to happen. Get your wits about you, and set about troubleshooting and jerry-rigging your mast so you can have some kind of sail. </span></span></span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0cac15f8-4820-2193-4283-bbc65f7ebad2"></span></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0cac15f8-4820-2193-4283-bbc65f7ebad2"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline;">It just goes to show that if you are sailing on open water, you should have a toolkit and other spare things lying around that can help you in dire straits.</span></span></span></div></div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-450976393646723422016-06-07T09:44:00.002-06:002016-08-10T08:33:20.409-06:00In Cold Water: A Tale of Dinghy Sailing with Unfamiliar Crew<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" dir="rtl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Ready to jibe?"</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ready.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Suddenly, the mainsail, which I had successfully trimmed in for the jibe was headed straight for the water and fast. I had no time to counter the weight of the wind in the sail with my body, being caught off guard at my botched jibe and the weight of my crew on the leeward side. Before I could think twice, I was in the water, swimming around the boat and toward the dagger board. My crew was hanging onto the mast, so as I reached for the dagger board which had not been locked into place, the boat went from a simple capsize to a full turtle. My crew was nowhere to be seen.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="383" src="https://theamya.org/hints/sailmanual/images/capsizing.gif" width="400" /></span></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I stood on the edge of the hull, dagger board fully extended now, I shook my head and hoped like hell that my crew could swim. I waited for her to surface, and reflected on how I got myself into this situation.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Earlier in the day, I had rented a Laser 2000 with a novice sailor. It’s not that I am all that experienced myself. I have been sailing for two years, mostly in summer, and I have hopped between Picos (small dinghies) and keel boats. Except for my experience on the Picos and my lessons with the keel, I have not been skipper much. I’m still learning how to identify the wind while sailing, and this is what gets me in trouble. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My rental earlier in the day was to gain experience, and experiment as skipper. After lunch, my English speaking crew from the morning headed off to her prior engagements, and I assumed that I would just be crew for another novice skipper, or I would gain some knowledge from the coach would was helping show us the Laser 2000s. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was wrong.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we headed back out toward the boats, one of the novice sailors, the only other woman left in the group, grabbed my arm and insisted that she ride with me. I tried to express that I just wanted to be crew, maybe she could be skipper. I received a very emphatic, “No.” So, there I was, heading back out, a little worse for wear, having woken up at 5:30 that morning to catch a bus. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we left the safety of the beach, things didn’t seem so bad, except that I was having a hard time catching this wind, which was supposedly right behind us. The wind seemed to be shifting, but it is quite possible that my perception was off from the beginning. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We made it out to bigger water, and we tried some exercises, my crew, whose English was as limited as my Korean, insisted that we fly the jib. I asked her to hold off a bit. I wanted to get my sea legs before adding more power. Finally, her nagging won out, and we were flying the small jib.&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ready to tack?”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ready.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="Tack Diagram (sailing) Clip Art" height="400" src="https://www.clker.com/cliparts/e/8/9/e/11949896501740467875sailing_tack.svg.med.png" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; text-align: center; white-space: normal;" width="378" /></span></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some tacks were better than others, in many I lost speed before the tack for a myriad reasons. Finally, we started working better together. We, being me and the boat, or me and my crew, or all of us all together. I was feeling confident, and I was practicing maneuvering as much as possible. I had to get my sea legs as I was competing in my first ever dinghy regatta the following weekend.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="615" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/ItYV21j4zIgUW5NI4TPshYx8Jffk5pyRsgFKkDFmXAQQ7LSplUiSfG91SL_ziJwrdzPz8MahfYlbPFIt0LFocBrnSKMfzPj4m2DoaS-UvOZ3KZUk2H6E8LFSlHNtxAt47RNUQLSZ" style="border: none; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.24px; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="624" /></span></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we sailed downwind, at a broad reach on a port tack, I felt pretty good about our position. The sail was out, we were flying, catching waves and surfing occasionally. Then, I decided it was time&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for a jibe.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I attempted the jibe, something went horribly wrong. We caught a strong gust. The mainsail and my crew headed straight for the water.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="400" src="https://www.clker.com/cliparts/3/8/f/a/1194989643888907585sailing_jibe.svg.med.png" style="font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.24px;" width="302" /></span></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></div><b id="docs-internal-guid-7cbd05be-2b6f-6bc9-7b78-1afa788938a4" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had begun to contemplate the possibility of my crew not surfacing, when I finally saw her. She did not look happy. The first thing she said to me was she was cold. I started immediately insisting that she come help me right the boat. I knew what we had to do, and I knew we could do it. She refused. She would not move from her current position. She shook her head stubbornly, frowned, and held tightly onto the bowsprit.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I started looking around. Standing on the edge of the hull, without it leaning even a bit, I knew it was hopeless for me to attempt this situation alone. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the distance I saw the jet ski of the marina coming toward us. As it approached, I imagined my crew being lifted away onto the jet ski and carted back to the mainland. The way she was acting, I had started imagining that she was near hypothermia or had been badly injured.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the jet ski approached, she reached out for it. Hoping to be carted away. Instead, one of the men on the jet ski jumped off and started trying to help my right our boat. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We pushed against the hull with our feet and used the dagger board as leverage. This boat did not want to budge, and it took a long time for us to even get her to a properly capsized position. Finally, we righted the boat, and my first move was to make sure we didn’t capsize again. As she tilted back toward the water, I jumped on the opposite side of the hull and grabbed to uncleat the mainsheet, setting the mainsail free.** I also took the opportunity to furl the jib. As far as I was concerned we would not be needing that bit of power anymore. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I boarded the boat to the best of my ability, but I found that jumping back into a boat after a capsize took the last remaining bit of energy I had. The man who helped right the boat, pulled me in by my life vest.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With my crew being cold and seemingly helpless in the water, as she back-floated over to the rear of the boat, I made the decision to head in. When she insisted that we go back out, I refused. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We headed slowly back in, and I called it a day.</span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">**The cleated mainsail was much of the reason the Laser 2000 was extremely difficult to right as it added additional drag.</span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Luckily I went out the next weekend with crew I was familiar with. We maneuvered in low, shifting wind and came out sixth place out of eleven teams in the regatta.</span></div><br /></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-68701384192734455952016-03-22T09:32:00.000-06:002016-03-22T10:03:39.057-06:00The Zoo in My Basement OR What Makes a Story**<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38;">I liked to tell stories. Stories that people would believe. Stories that others would help me construct as I gauged their reactions. In my book, I was not a liar.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I lay on the bottom bunk in my friend’s room staring up at the bars that held his mattress in place. I shifted my attention to the dark blue flannel sheets which covered me. The stars on them nearly glowed as they reflected the night light. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friend’s mom had told us to be quiet and go to sleep, but I was not ready for sleep. As I took in the smell of a foreign detergent on the sheets, I thought about my sheets at home, the cotton and polyester blend which was so much cooler and smoother than these, and I waited for the right moment to speak. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thinking about the mystery that lay hidden in that basement, I could not hold it in any longer.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey, are you still awake?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes.”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I was just thinking about the basement of Room 10.” </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes we would use Room 10 as a shortcut to the yard at the back of the Motel. I knew my friend had seen the dusty, wooden stairs leading to a dark void, but he</span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> probably</span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> had never ventured down them. </span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Usually accompanied by my father, I had.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“There’s a secret room in the basement. It has an orange light.” </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So far, I had not strayed from truth.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">The steep, cobwebbed stairs led to a room filled with gas-lit furnaces and water heaters. The room smelled industrial, like steel pipes mixed with water and heat. Near the bottom of the stairs was a shelf which organized the letters for the motel sign. Usually, that was as far into the basement as I got, grabbing letters for the sign. But earlier that week, I had seen more.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38;">I found a cellar or bomb shelter, an ill-lit, hidden compartment in the basement. This hidden room got my imagination churning. What was it for? Why was it there?</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“A secret room?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah. We have animals in there.” </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Really?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could hear by the tone in his voice that I had his interest, but he did not quite believe me.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What kind of animals?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“There’s a pony.”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I always wanted a pony when I was a child, so it made sense to start there.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“A pony?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, it’s a really big room. So big, I couldn’t see the end of it. There’s a pony and a couple horses.”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What else is there?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This time, I felt I was losing him. Horses? Ponies? This was a boy I was talking to, and his tone told me that he was not going to be that interested unless I upped the danger factor.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“There’s a gorilla.”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“A gorilla?! What? Wow!”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now I had him, and as I continued to craft my underground zoo, I envisioned it in my head.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes, a gorilla. And …” picturing what I knew about the jungle and wild animals, “And, a lion.”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“A lion? Wouldn’t he eat all the other animals?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No. It’s like a zoo. All the animals are kept separate. The zebras are together. The giraffe is …”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“There’s a giraffe?!” Neither of us had ever seen a giraffe. Our local zoo did not have them. Even the large zoo in the closest major city only had one, and it was mostly kept out of view.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, I had gone almost too far with the story. I had captivated him with details that begged to be shown off. I should have predicted what would come next.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I want to see it! I want to go to the zoo in the basement of the Motel! Can you show me? Can we play with the animals?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friend raised his volume to a point where I almost shushed him. I was afraid his mom would come in. She was not the kind of mom you wanted to come in to tell you a second time to be quiet. Her stern voice always made me feel guilty before I could even process what I had done wrong. Thinking quickly, to avoid ruining my storytelling experiment, I countered his proposal with the end of my story.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You can’t visit the zoo because the animals aren’t there anymore. There was a big flood in the basement …” I had heard of basements flooding, but I had never seen such an event. “Anyway, all the animals had to be moved out. Now there’s just a big empty room. No more animals. No more zoo.”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh man.” Even in his disappointment, I could tell that his mind was still buzzing with the questions, the plausibility of this story.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we both fell asleep that night, my friend probably dreaming of an underground zoo, I reveled in the satisfaction of a story well told. While I had walked close to the line, he had not once called me out and said I was telling a story. He believed my story, and this meant I had done a good job.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I firmly believed that a good story came from a captive audience, one which could give feedback about the believability of my stories. This kind of feedback only came from an audience which did not know if I was telling a story or not, I never told my listeners I was telling a story. That would take away the spark of imagination, the excitement of possibility, the line between believable and not.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next week would show that the adults in our lives did not think this way. To his mom, I was a liar, spinning unbelievable tales and taking advantage of the goal-ability of her child. I was a liability. If I could tell this kind of a lie, what was next? I can only imagine the conversation which occurred between my mother and her.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Afterwards, at home, my mom asked, “Did you tell your friend that there used to be a zoo in the basement?” </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes, but it was a story.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He didn’t know it was a story. If people don’t know you are telling a story, it’s a lie.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But, if people know it’s a story, it’s not as fun to tell.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was not the last story I told. The next time my mother was much more firm, and I stopped telling fictional stories for good. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">**As a note about this story. I do not remember the exact dialog or layout of my friend’s room. Some details may have been extracted from other memories or embellished to tell a better story. Please do not think this makes me a liar.</span></div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-11070542966889580632016-03-13T07:44:00.003-06:002016-03-13T07:46:30.067-06:00The Pink Piano OR Accepting Gifts from Strangers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I often wondered where my street smarts came from. I grew up in a small town, where people did not lock their doors, a place where it was okay to leave keys in the ignition and the door of the vehicle wide open. (Yes, my father did just that.)&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I grew up in a time when children went door to door on Halloween asking strangers / neighbors for candy. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everyone in my life was trusting, and nothing bad ever happened.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, when I moved to a big city, how did I instinctively know not to make eye contact with a ranting stranger on the street, subway, or bus? </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How did I know to buy purses with over the shoulder straps and ensure that all important zippers faced in? </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How did I know that it’s best to just “look like you know where you are going” even if you are lost?&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Was I just born paranoid? </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But as I started to reflect on stories of the motel from my childhood, I realized, most of my street smarts came from being raised in the manager’s apartment of a motel on the south end of a small town called Blackfoot, Idaho. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was in kindergarten, school only went for a half day. The other half of the day, I spent with my father or hanging out alone. I would help my dad clean rooms. I would walk around the parking lot and pick up cigarette butts, a penny a piece. I would wander around the back yard, inventing stories and going on adventures. I would watch my dad fix the pickup, van, or a sink. I would try to help him install a toilet in a room under renovation.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not matter where we were around the motel, people would chat with my dad about their room or life or money situation. Everyone knew I was the manager’s daughter. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I was out in the parking lot without my dad, people would ask,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Have you seen M___?”&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey, is your dad around?” </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My parents taught me very early, not to talk to strangers, not to engage. Being shy by nature, this was not a difficult thing for me to grasp. I got it. If you see a customer coming, avoid them at all costs, n</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">ever answer the office door, a</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">nd as I learned, one day, never take gifts from customers.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the comfort of our home or in the backyard, no one bothered me, unless I walked past the back windows of their rooms.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One day, I was walking around the backyard, heading down the alley toward the “back back” yard, under the windows of a few of the rooms. Unexpectedly, a tenant, one of the weekly renters who was fairly new, called to me from his window. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, due to the nature of the arrangement, me, a small child, and the window rather far up, I did not feel like I was in any immediate danger. I knew I was breaking the rules, but it did not </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">feel </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">dangerous. This renter was a stranger, but we were separated by a large amount of space. He was just trying to make friendly conversation. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, despite all warnings, this stranger was able to engage me in conversation. As I remember it, it was a fairly harmless conversation about what I was doing and if I liked music, and it ended with him handing me a little pink keyboard out the window of his room. I took the piano. Thanked him and went back inside to play with my new toy.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The problem came when my parents noticed this toy. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Where did you get that?” My mom asked. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The man in number 5 gave it to me.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What?”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I was just walking to the back, back yard, and he gave it to me through the window.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I remember that my mother was furious. Perhaps she was embarrassed, but more than likely she was worried or scared. My mom, never fond of raising children around an ever-changing group of wayward travelers, had thoughts of child abduction or molestation.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You cannot keep that. Do not take gifts from the people staying here. You should not trust them.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was confused and scared, as she lectured me about the danger I had put myself in. As at all times in my life when emotions reach a peak, I started crying. I just wanted to keep that pink piano. I had no idea that I had put myself in danger. The man did not seem scary, and there had been a wall between us. I did not think I had done anything wrong.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“And never talk to anyone from the backyard. Just ignore them or tell your dad.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My parents gave the piano back. I have no idea what words were exchanged, but I do not remember ever being bothered by that tenant again.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do remember being nervous about passing under those windows. I do remember hurrying because I did not want strangers watching. I do remember being scared of any interaction with a tenant. And when I was old enough that I started cleaning rooms, I remember I would always clean the rooms I knew people had left first.&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I never accepted a gift from a stranger at the motel again.</span></div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span id="docs-internal-guid-506852fa-702f-50c7-69d4-45fce7ba9c82"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also gained my first real taste of street smarts. </span></span></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-27870538775528122442016-03-07T09:14:00.002-07:002016-03-07T09:16:53.963-07:00Your face will get stuck like that OR A girl named Kim<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a young child, watching Bugs Bunny dig to China, presumably through the center of the Earth, and come out on the “other side”, got my thoughts churning. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a bit of a loner. I enjoy sitting alone, thinking to myself, musing about the events around me, watching people. As a child, these observations were budding, my musings simple.&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"What does it mean that Bugs Bunny changed when he came out on the “other side.” Was he still Bugs Bunny?" </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps, it wasn’t actually Bugs Bunny. It is impossible to travel through the center of the Earth. Maybe it was Bugs Bunny’s doppelganger. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If it was, maybe I had a look-alike on the other side of the world, too. A girl named Kim who was exactly like me, the same age, the same interests, the same basic person, only, this Kim had almond-shaped eyes. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sitting alone, in front of the bathroom mirror, mulling over these ideas, I decided I wanted to have almond-shaped eyes. I thought they would be more beautiful than my round eyes.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Suddenly, an idea popped into my head. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My dad had a way of getting us to stop pouting or throwing a fit, or at least trying to get us to stop. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Make that face long enough, and your face will get stuck like that.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rationally, I may have known this was not entirely true.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The statement should have gotten the same “Daa-aad” response that, “If you stick your lip out far enough, a bird will come sit on it,” did. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take this concept that a face could get stuck a certain way, and apply it to the idea that I wanted almond-shaped eyes. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The result? </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I sat in the bathroom for what amounted to be hours, holding the outer corners of my eyes, trying to get my eyes to “get stuck like that.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Slowly the realization came that there was no way my face was going to get “stuck”. It became obvious that it was improbable that suddenly I would have almond-shaped eyes just because I wished for them.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Little did I know that in this thought, this wanting to have an eye shape that I did not have, I unknowingly had found the key to what in the future turned out to be “a girl named Kim who was like me.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast forward to my life in Ulsan, South Korea, an industrial city where having cosmetic surgery is the norm and never having had cosmetic surgery makes you an outlier. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here, I am constantly complimented on my small face and big eyes. Both of these things are thanks to my heritage, and the fact that holding out the corners of your eyes does not change their shape, no matter how determined you are.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Ulsan, girls are not just holding their faces in a shape hoping their faces will get stuck. In Ulsan, I am surrounded by plastic surgery eyes, by shaved jawlines and “high” noses. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You would think that simply being surrounded by all this plastic would have reminded me of my brief, childhood dream of having almond-shaped eyes, but it wasn’t until winter vacation when a coworker of mine got double eyelid surgery, that I started remembering. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-e1a28676-51ae-f873-d35f-557192651938"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First it was the idea of changing eye shape, and then it looped back to “that girl named Kim who is exactly like me, but she lives on the other side of the world.” If by Kim, I meant a family name, and by exactly like me, I meant wanted to look differently than she did, then </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found her.&nbsp;</span><br /><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Korea.</span></span><br /><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As an adult.</span></span><br /><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Transforming her eyes to look more like mine.</span></span></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-79903411727651610792016-01-24T09:19:00.002-07:002016-01-28T07:17:52.416-07:00A Story of Chance: Wandering in Hong Kong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I meet a new city, I prefer to walk it. Exploring on foot I have found a smattering of tucked away shops and cafes, but nothing yet compares to two discoveries made in Hong Kong. One with the help of a Couchsurfer turned friend. The other by chance. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is the story of chance.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Hong Kong, it is essential to walk and explore. Any Hong Konger will tell you the best way to experience the city is on foot. Skip the subway. Skip the buses. Skip the taxis. Pick a direction based on a hunch, a curiosity, or a destination, and walk.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Exploring on the Kowloon (mainland) side of Hong Kong, I started at the ferry terminal and Nathan Road. Then I decided to get off the main drag. I headed north in search of a gallery which promised a new perspective on “Touch” and art. Briefly disappointed and feeling lost after looking at immature work, thinking it looked childish for established artists, and only at the end of the exhibition finding out the work was done by students. (Thank goodness for the docent who told me!) I wandered back south. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I walked into the flower market, full of orchids, roses, lilies, rhododendrons, azaleas, bamboo. I was overwhelmed by scents and shoppers as I wandered. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Flowers in buckets and bouquets wrapped in paper. Vans picking up and delivering flowers in their daily routine. Tall buckets full of long-stemmed flowers packed tight. A florist trying to make room for more. Buckets toppling like dominoes. Water streaming into the gutter. I watched as staff slowly and calmly picked up the buckets. Their actions calculated movements, as if this was part of the daily routine.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Afterwards, I found myself in a bird garden (market) full of dissonant chirping. I heard a cacophony of birds trapped in cages, calling out, looking for a familiar voice in the mix. I saw beautifully carved cages, porcelain food and water dishes, multi-colored birds, old men and women sitting in stalls or outside the gates of the garden with so many songbirds. I could not take it all in. I left feeling stressed and confused. I sat on a bench trying to process the ordeal, taking a breath, writing some notes, eating a pear.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wandered back to the street, more flowers, more open shops, garden flowers, and a main road. Prince Edward Road. Shops on the main level full of touristy goods. A subway station ahead. “I have been walking for hours. I am tired. Maybe I will go to the subway, head back to the hostel, and take a break.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then I see it. A sign. Literally, a sign. The sign marked the historic building I stood in front of. A building which retained original art deco elements from the font of the address on the door, to the ironwork on the doors themselves. I quickly skimmed the sign, and then I had a look for myself. On the second floor was a ceramics shop. Always on the look for unique moments when exploring cities, I wandered up the stairs. At the first landing, I looked at the doors, briefly confused at the lack of a ceramics’ shop, and then realizing for the umpteenth time that I was only on the first floor according to Hong Kong’s system of counting levels. I continued up the stairs.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stairs with original tiling.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/JlCeramicsConceptShop/?fref=ts" target="_blank">JL Ceramics </a></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/JlCeramicsConceptShop/?fref=ts" target="_blank">Concept Shop</a> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Open”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I pushed the door open and heard a chime which reminded me of a small metal wind chime.&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hello.”&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I heard in an accent I couldn’t quite place.&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hi,” I said, as I walked into the shop mesmerized by everything around me. I may or may not have made eye contact with the shopkeeper who sat behind an antique looking carved wooden desk with a large tapestry acting as a curtain behind him.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I wandered around his shop, looking, not touching, amazed at the variety of ceramics I saw before me, enchanted by the lovely, detailed painting on a small porcelain tea set, he must have watched me. While I can’t say for sure that he wondered about my presence in his shop, as I walked around to the first shelf, his question gave me a hint.&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So, what brings you in? You just wander into any open shop?”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Apparently I did not look the part of his usual, purposeful customer. I also had not initiated a conversation, secretly hoping that his curiosity would start the conversation and nearly overly excited at the chance to speak about my own wonderings and slightly out of breath, I said, “I saw a sign that this was a historic building, and I happen to like ceramics.”&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First he told me about the apartment. He drew my attention to the floor, “original tile.” I could tell by the lilt in his voice that he was happy to have a customer who appreciated the finer details of his apartment. I let him indulge, asking probing questions here and there, and finding out that he had to petition to rent this apartment. He made a proposal that he would keep everything original, while supporting and promoting local cultural arts. He won the bid.</span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> He hosts a variety of workshops at the apartment and at another location.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What kind of ceramics do you like?” he asked. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I like all kinds from very detailed porcelain to contemporary abstract works.” </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He showed me his most prized items, kiln supports from an ancient Chinese dynasty, which had been discarded by the potters at the time because a bowl had been partially glazed to them. These kiln supports were rugged, heavy grog. The porcelain inside delicate and glazed with with celadon, a light green glaze praised by many potters because of the difficulty of achieving a perfect mixture.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I asked if he had work by local Hong Kong artists. We talked kilns. He showed me work he had purchased in Korea, opening the door for me to talk about my story. He then launched into his. He lived in Melbourne for 10 years before returning to Hong Kong and opening the shop. Finally, his accent was put in its place.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After my own wandering and his tour, I knew I could not leave without a piece of this place. I knew what I wanted but worried it was out of my price range. Luckily, I had just enough for two small teacups minimally and artfully painted. Perfect reminders of my trip and this lovely discovery.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JNsTZhSob7U/VqT5mA-_EsI/AAAAAAAAKqY/AtIQ0aBnCCQ/s1600/Tea%2Bcups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JNsTZhSob7U/VqT5mA-_EsI/AAAAAAAAKqY/AtIQ0aBnCCQ/s400/Tea%2Bcups.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before heading back to wash and wrap my selections, the shopkeeper pointed me to a beautiful selection of fabrics and clothing, which he had seen me brush past in my excitement about pottery. He told me he had a large selection of fabric woven in Shanghai in the 1950s, and he had decided to try his hand at designing clothes.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I then noticed, the shirt he was wearing came from the same selection of blue and white striped cloth.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was heavy fabric. Beautifully dyed and woven. I immediately thought of my grandmother. And as he slipped away to take care of my tea cups, I admired his handicraft, but mostly the weight and feel of the fabric. Modern fabrics are woven by machine, but these fabrics had the feel of hand-weaving. Uneven, thick, rough, and masterful. Realizing there was no way I could carry a whole bolt of fabric with me back to the hostel or back to Korea, I looked down. Remembering that I had seen other storage areas on lower shelves around the shop, I found the remnants. When he saw me sifting through them, it was as if he knew I was wondering about price.&nbsp;</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Pick one,” he said across the shop. “Those are scraps. For you, take one for free. For the memory.” </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Really? Wow. Ok! Thank you so much.” </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These were very well kept remnants, and I selected one which I found the most attractive of the lot.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Giddy with the excitement of the discovery of this shop, the fact I was spending my last 350 HKD and still had a couple days left in town, the pleasure of knowing that I would soon be the owner of two beautiful tea cups, and holding the remnant, I headed back to the front of the shop and his desk. We conversed a bit more, and then I walked back out to the street. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-c41c67ea-7460-a552-127b-d7ee53e159f5"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Out of the shop, suddenly I was exhausted. I needed to find food, an ATM, and get back to the hostel to take a nap so I could keep going for the rest of the day.</span></span></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-73568572561791789162015-09-30T10:45:00.000-06:002015-09-30T20:38:29.935-06:00Nothing lost, nothing gained? Losing 300 USD in Tokyo.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, in a move to be social and see a different side of a place, you agree to go out on the town, even when you are tired and want to wake up early the next morning. For me Monday, September 28, 2015 in Tokyo was one of those nights. I was on vacation. Why not get to know new people from the hostel and explore a different side of Tokyo?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had spent the day exploring. I had eaten an awesome meal of ramen, suggested by the host of the hostel, and I was just hanging around in the common area planning my Tuesday. Not many people were around. It was 9 p.m. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I went upstairs, debating with myself what to do. I could go to sleep. I was tired after a long day of walking and exploring, but when I heard people talking in the room, I took a chance. I stepped out of my capsule bed and ask if anyone had plans for the evening.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That was when the evening turned from a potential quiet night to a night I will not soon forget. M the Italian girl in the room said, “Yes, another guy from the hostel and I are going out. Do you want to join us?”<br /><br />I hesitated for a split second, then said, “Yeah, why not?”<br /><br />I thought for sure we were going out in our area, so I only packed a bit of cash, about 4,000 yen (40 USD). When I went downstairs, I found out we were going to Shinjuku, a place full of yakitori and small bars. I asked if I would have enough for the evening. G the French guy who was coming with us assured me that it would be enough. “We won’t be out for that long. I want to be back before 2 a.m.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We were an unlikely group of three. M a graphic designer who worked for an architecture firm, G a teacher trainer on sabbatical who had coordinated visiting artists to schools, and me, a EFL teacher, formerly an art educator. We came together at a great place, <a href="http://thekai.jp/" target="_blank">Kai(su) Hostel</a>, attracted by the artistic layout of the hostel’s website and the charm of its interior design.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As we headed out to Shinjuku via two transfers on the metro, I considered what I would do if 4,000 was indeed not enough. I had my bank card. I knew I could always stop by a 7/11 ATM and withdraw more if needed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We started the evening at a small yakitori bar and left around midnight. Already, I knew it was going to be a long night and my 4,000 yen had somehow already dwindled to 1,500 yen. It was not a good feeling. No one else was ready to head back, and I didn’t have money for a taxi. So, the conclusion was to stay out, tell M and G my money situation and figure out how to pay them back later. Feeling like an awful mooch, I let them know that I was pretty short on money.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No problem!” was the response that I received.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After dinner we wandered over to Golden Gai, a series of alleys crowded with small 7-8 person bars. Between my method of using GPS and G’s method of asking every time he felt we were going the wrong direction, we made pretty good time. As we walked through the alleys of Golden Gai, we discussed the criteria for selecting a bar.<br /><br />First, no cover charge. Many of the bars charged a cover for foreigners who may have just come to see what all the hype was about rather than to sit down, have a drink, and talk to the bar tender.<br /><br />Second, there had to be people in the bar.<br /><br />Third, it needed to look like fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I predicted, I was out of cash after the first drink and a half. That was when things started to get uncomfortable. Sure, it’s not hard as a woman to get men to buy you drinks, but I like to pay for myself. I felt the guilt starting to rack up. We were all travelers on limited budgets staying at a hostel – so when we left Golden Gai in search of a place to dance – I kept my eyes open for an ATM. I didn’t care to dance, but no matter what we did, at this point, I felt I needed to grab some money.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s when I saw a 7/11 bank. This was my chance to get cash and pay everyone back for their generosity. I went into the bank, put in my Korean ATM card and started pressing buttons to withdraw money. I had remembered from before that 10,000 yen (100 USD) was the minimum I could withdraw at a time in Japan, but this time it seemed as if I could withdraw 50,000 Korean won (5,000 yen, 50 USD). I was excited, it would mean less money left over in yen at the end. I withdrew the money, put it in my purse without examining it, and left the bank.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After I took the money, we walked a bit more, looking for a club, and finding only places with hopping music and no dance floor. By this time it was 4 a.m. well past the 2 a.m. I was promised and well past my budget for this night out. Finally, to my relief, we headed, yawning, toward the metro. We were somehow under the impression that the metro opened at 4 a.m. When it wasn’t open, G, in his way, asked the poor student on the steps about the opening time, 6:30 a.m. We all agreed that it wasn’t worth the wait.<br /><br />It was time to take a taxi.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now was my time to pay back the favors, so I offered to cover our taxi ride of 2,400 yen (24 USD). When we arrived at the hostel, I handed over three bills to the taxi driver. G handed me a 1,000 yen bill for some reason. I received 600 yen in change from the driver, and I got out of the taxi and headed for bed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The next day, I checked out of the hostel around 10 a.m. as planned and made my way to the Imperial Gardens and then on to a traditional looking area of Tokyo, known as Taito, where a hidden gallery called SCAI THE BATHHOUSE resided. The gallery didn’t open until noon, and I was a little early. So, I wandered around.<br /><br />Not too far away was a great little hidden bakery and coffee shop nestled into traditional wooden houses. I went in and grabbed a couple low cost baked goods. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I thought I had about 3,600 yen in my pocket left over from the night before, 2,000 from the ATM withdrawal, 1,000 from G, and 600 in change from the taxi driver. I hadn’t bothered to check my wallet when I left the hostel. I just packed the extra 5,000 I had saved for transportation and was on my way. When I was at the metro, I put 1,500 yen on my card to get to the airport, so at the bakery I should have had 2,100 yen immediately accessible in my wallet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I put down a bill for the baked goods, and waited as the cashier counted change. She took her time and grabbed a 5,000 yen bill and some 1,000 yen bills. I was about to wave her away and tell her she was wrong when I looked down at the bill I had handed her. In Japanese style it was still in the money tray on the counter. It was a 10,000 yen bill. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I stopped in shock. My first thought was, “Oh shit. G must have handed me a 10,000 yen note. What am I going to do? I don’t have his contact information. I don’t even know his last name.” I started thinking about how I could possibly pay this forward or return it to him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After enjoying my snack, I went back to the gallery and then wandered on to the metro to head to the airport. I still had no idea what to do about the money, so I brushed the thoughts aside. I could figure it out later, when I had had more sleep and less alcohol the night before.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got close to the metro, I decided to stop by a convenience store to grab some water or something to drink. I went in and grabbed a marker and a drinkable yogurt. Then I went to the counter. At the counter, I opened my wallet and pulled out the change from the 10,000 yen bill. To my surprised I found another 10,000 yen bill. That’s when my neck flushed. I fumbled a bit, paid for my things with change from the first 10,000 yen bill and got out of there. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“What is going on? If I have two, it wasn’t G who made a mistake. I must have taken 50,000 yen (500 USD) from the ATM?”<br /><br />As I thought of all of this and the foggy events of the nights before, I walked toward the metro, found my train, and got on. As I sat on the train, I badly wanted to open my wallet and do some calculations to figure out what was going on. If it was true, that I had taken 50,000 yen, maybe I misremembered the taxi ride. Maybe I gave him one bill and he gave me different change. The only other option is that he took 30,000 yen (300 USD) from me and gave me 600 yen in change. This couldn’t be right. There’s no way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After a few stops, I got off the train to transfer and make sure I was on a train to the airport. I desperately wanted to find a place to hide and count my money.<br /><br />There was nowhere to hide on the outdoor platform.<br /><br />I would have to wait an hour until I was at the airport and in the bathroom. I had an hour to remember and make clear the events of the night before. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I remembered. I went to the ATM. I must have withdrawn 50,000 yen, there is no other explanation and it makes more sense that 50,000 Korean won. I was in Japan after all. I got in the taxi. At the end, I handed the taxi driver three bills. I distinctly remember this action. I also remember not looking at the bills, ever, until the bakery. I just assumed that 1 and 0 that I noticed were followed by two more zeros not three. <br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I finally arrived at the airport, I was 90 percent certain of what had actually occurred, but I had a small sliver of hope that maybe I was remembering the night wrong. What kind of taxi driver, takes 30,000 yen for a 2,400 yen taxi ride? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I resolved to go into a stall and cry about my loss. 300 USD. The equivalent of a month of my teacher training course. Money that was supposed to go home. Money that I should have held on to, but not money that put me at a complete loss. Maybe the taxi driver needed that money … or maybe he was just a jerk who hated foreigners.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I went to the stall, still slightly clinging to hope. I opened my wallet with one last wish, and then I counted. One 10,000 yen bill. Two 5,000 yen bills. Three 1,000 yen bills. There was no longer any question. I had done exactly what I dreaded. I withdrew 50,000 yen and gave 30,000 yen to the taxi driver. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There was simply no other explanation. It will be absolutely confirmed when I see my sad bank account. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I traded 300 USD for a story. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing lost nothing gained.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tf9XEJp2I2I/VgwQmWDDm8I/AAAAAAAAGgA/gayvPbV7OAM/s1600/20151001_013457%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tf9XEJp2I2I/VgwQmWDDm8I/AAAAAAAAGgA/gayvPbV7OAM/s400/20151001_013457%255B1%255D.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is no real excuse for the confusion ...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-87202690391867464742015-05-06T08:59:00.001-06:002016-03-07T09:21:38.961-07:00Driving in Paris and Other Memories: Paris Syndrome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">As I read Tahir Shah’s <i>Paris Syndrome</i>, a flood of memories poured over me. Memories connected to false hopes and crushed dreams associated not with Paris or the city itself, but with a failed relationship, loosely connected to Paris, that has greatly affected my life and choices. When this relationship lay in the wreckage of confusion in Marseille, I hopped on a train to Nice, and then on to Paris for a brief moment to meet up with a friend who was also piecing together a shattered heart. We had a plan. We would meet in Paris. I had an international driver’s license, so we would drive north to Omaha Beach in Normandie, retracing the footsteps of her grandfather.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I met my friend near Gare du Nord, and we headed straight for the car rental area. Renting outside of America, I dreamed of a finally getting to drive a French car, a Citroen or Peugeot. You can imagine my disappointment when I found that the car in our spot was a tiny little Ford Fiesta. Regardless, we loaded up the car and drove out of the parking garage into the streets of Paris to begin our journey north.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Driving out of the city was deceptively easy. Parisian traffic seemed low key and more orderly than I had imagined, and I adeptly weaved my way onto the A14 heading north, briefly waylaid by a passing emergency vehicle. The drive back into Paris did not echo our drive out. Beautiful and ingenious as it may seem, Paris can be a nerve-racking mess for contemporary drivers without a GPS. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The plan seemed easy enough. On our return trip from Caen, I took the A14 and aimed for the peripherique, a road which circles the city and drops drivers near to their destinations. As an inexperienced Parisian driver, I missed the turn onto the peripherique and headed straight into the heart of Paris, a spinning round-a-bout full of traffic, an intersection of five roads, ten spokes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;My head hurt. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Feeling pressure because we had to return the rental on time, I imagined the worst. Chances were that we would get lost, take the wrong spoke, and spin in the wrong direction, possibly toward another, perhaps even more convoluted round-a-bout. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was here, entering this giant mess of five roads coming together into a centrifuge, shooting cars in every direction, that my friend, fighting motion sickness to read the map, must have said something like, “Take Avenue de Wagram.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I drove into the round-a-bout, trying to keep abreast of traffic, in this land with no divisions between lanes and a hundred cars merging into one place, it was all I could do not to lose it. “I don’t know which street that is!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Parisian roads are labeled like those in most of the world outside of the <i>Les États-Unis</i>. That is, they are not on sign posts clearly discernible to a speeding vehicle, rather they are on the sides of buildings easily understandable to a pedestrian or, as in Haussmann’s time, a horse and carriage, but nearly impossible for a vehicle traveling nearly 40 miles per hour (65 km/h). It was not as if I could just slow down and approach each spoke timidly while inquiring about which road to take. That surely would have meant being crushed by the oncoming drivers inside our tiny Ford Fiesta. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Feeling as though a giant crevasse had opened between us inside the car, I yelled to my friend, “Forget street names! Just count! How many do I need to go? How many spokes?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She counted frantically, figuring how many spokes we had already passed, egged on by the distress and urgency in my voice. Cars screamed past us as I tried to keep control and not veer too close to the center or edge of the centrifuge.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Three more spokes!” she yelled across the void.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Two. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Three!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Suddenly, we were out of the first round-a-bout. We passed the first test, and the crevasse closed. We were back to sitting close, side-by-side, separated merely by the bucket seats and gear shift.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As each subsequent round-a-bout approached, we developed a strategy. A) Determine which road we had ended up on. B) Find the road on the map. C) Count how many spokes to the correct road. D) Check to make sure we ended on the correct spoke before hitting another round-a-bout. We proceeded with this strategy for what felt like an eternity. In reality, we probably drove through the heart of Paris for twenty minutes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I saw it, a sign for Gare du Nord! “There it is!”&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was elated. We had somehow survived Parisian traffic and countless round-a-bouts! We had made it! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I looked down at the gas gage. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nearly empty.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh well. I did not care if we got charged me 9 Euro a liter for a tank of gas. I was not about to venture away from the portal that would take the car and us down into a garage and off the streets. I had had enough of Parisian traffic and of the crazed people who drive there. I still have not determined who regularly drives in Paris. I have not met a single Frenchman who has said, “Parisian traffic? No problem.” Instead they look at me like I must be crazy trying to drive through the streets of Paris.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Exhausted, we dropped the car and walked back to the apartment my friend was lodged in. It was 9pm. We had yet to hear from her hosts, who were out of town. I still did not know if it was ok for me to stay. At 10pm, my friend got a message. The girlfriend was not comfortable with a stranger staying in her apartment. I was kicked to the curb to look for a hotel near Gare du Nord. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For those who do not know Paris, this is not a comfortable neighborhood for a solo female traveler. Full of shady, back alley dealings, I was skeptical that I would find a hotel suitable for sleeping before my flight back to Marseille. Rather than tell my friend about my discomfort. I googled the nearest hotel, called to make sure they had a room, and headed out. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The hotel was “a stone’s through from Gare du Nord [and] doubled as a <i>bordel</i>”. I know that Tahir Shah’s book is fictional, but I imagine that in his travels Shah has experienced a place much as I did, a place I found in an exhausted state, at the last minute. After a long drive through the convoluted streets of Paris, I just needed a place to sleep. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">On the exterior of the hotel, a sign with red letters in English but not in French said, “Guests may not have visitors.” Shaking off the red flags that were mounting, I entered. Next to the forbidding sign, there was a TripAdvisor sign. That should mean something, right? I took a breath and pushed the door in. A bell rang and the man sitting behind the counter hardly looked away from his television. I confirmed that I had just called, and he told me the total. I promptly handed him a card to pay. That was when he finally looked up at me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No cards,” he grunted. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I scrambled, taking out my wallet and counting and recounting my cash. The total for the room was something like 54 Euro. I only had 40 Euro, 44 with coins. I hesitated. I really did not want to venture back out on the street to find a cash machine or another hotel. I showed him that all I had was 44 Euro. He grunted and grumbled something about barely making ends meet. Then he took the money and gave me an old-style hotel key. Apparently at 10pm, I was an inflow of cash when there might have been none otherwise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I headed toward the narrow staircase that would take me up to my room, I took in my surroundings. Dark, due to nicotine covered light fixtures and no natural light from outside, the interior of the hotel was uninviting. I climbed the stairs as best I could, lugging a suitcase behind me. At the top of the stairs, I found the elevator door straight ahead and my room door directly to my right. I unlocked the door and walked into a tiled floor room, immediately turning around to lock and deadbolt the door. I heard the bathroom facet dripping, inhaled stale cigarette smoke, and heard the television through the thin walls. Luckily, my flight left early in the morning, and this would be a short night.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was paranoid about bugs and the sounds coming from rooms all around me, but the hotel really was not bad. In a different circumstance, I might have thought it quaint. Even though I was exhausted, I did not sleep well on the uneven mattress, and in the morning, I skipped breakfast and got away from the hotel as quickly and early as possible. Badly needing sleep, I headed for the airport to fly back to Marseille and deal, once again, with wreckage and collect my things.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">While I did not ever experience Paris Syndrome as extreme as Shah’s characters, I can see exactly why such an occurrence would happen. The city is touted as the most beautiful in the world, but the reality is both beautiful and gritty. It is a city of contrasts. A city with fabulous food, architecture, and history, and a city full of crazed drivers, prostitutes, and grime. A city I have spent as little time in as possible.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-56171366266477692382015-04-29T10:38:00.002-06:002015-04-29T10:39:50.153-06:00Medical Check: Initiation Rite of the English Teacher in Ulsan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">When most people hear the words medical check, they might think of something like a sports physical in the States. A nurse takes your weight and height. A doctor listens to your lungs and heart through a stethoscope. Your blood pressure is checked. Maybe there is a urine or blood test, but the list seems reasonable and overall non-intrusive. In Korea, non-intrusive is not a word I would use to describe what happens during a medical check. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For what made my third medical check, I went alone. I had returned to my former place of employment in Ulsan, and I had confidence in my ability to go to the hospital. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Easy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Right? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Forgetting my previous experience in Ulsan, I had a preconceived notion that all Korean hospitals would be as foreigner friendly as the one in Gwangan, Busan. A place where the signs are in English, Russian, and Korean, and there is an information help desk on every floor. If someone doesn’t speak English? No problem. Call the on-site translator. Needless to say, I was in for a bit of a shock.</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I walked in the front doors at “Good Morning Hospital” (Yes, the sign was in English.), past the patients outside on their smoke breaks, I stopped and looked around. Where was the person who greets you when you walk in the door and tells you where to go and what to do if you have no idea? Where were the signs in English? The only English, foreign-friendly thing was the name of the hospital plastered on the outside of the building. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After so many times of feeling lost and overwhelmed, I have finally started to be able to process it. I no longer get worked up to a point of tears … when I am well-rested and well, anyway. Granted, I was neither sick, nor tired, nor rushed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I took a deep breath. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Without a help desk, my option was to go to the hospital registration desk. I knew based on previous experience with hospitals and banks and anywhere with a line that I should take a number, if I wanted to get to the counter. I walked promptly to the machine that spits out numbers, took a number, and sat down to watch the digital numbers click up to mine. Only, for some reason, no one else decided to take a number, and while mine was only supposed to be two people away, I had to wait for the onslaught of people who had not taken a number to walk up to the desk and to get help. I was stunned. This was a-typical Korea from what I knew in Busan where people line up single-file on the busiest subway platform to get on a semi-crowded subway car. I almost decided that I was going to have to be pushy about things, but then my number came up. When I went up to the counter, I said in clear, concise English, “I need a medical check.” The woman looked at me with a blank stare and said some things in Korean. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was in this hospital full of Koreans who did not speak English that I recognized something essential for life here in Ulsan.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I need to learn more Korean. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">While I have day to day Korean which will help me with practical matters of finding what I need in a supermarket or ordering food or paying for things, I know zero Korean for hospitals. Somehow I fumbled enough that the supervisor of the woman I was trying to talk to came over, and said, “What is wrong? Where are you sick?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nowhere. I am not sick. I need a medical check.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Huh? Uh.You need third floor.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got to the third floor, I asked a nurse to point me toward the area for medical checks. I knew I was in the right place when I saw sample forms under the glass on tables, but the fillable forms were nowhere to be found. Just like the entry to the hospital, everything was different. In Busan my coworker showed me to a stack of forms, I filled one out, and then she handed it to the nurse. What did I expect? Different city, different hospital, different procedures. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I finally sorted out that I should go to the desk and ask for a form. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After filling out the form and handing it over, I was officially in the system and getting a medical check. The women said, “Pay, first floor (where I had just come from). Blood and urine, second floor. Then come back.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Admittedly a bit baffled by the inefficiency of this payment system, again, compared to my hospital in Busan. I went down to the first floor, and learning from my previous experience, I did not take a number. I walked up to an open counter space and handed over my boss’ credit card to pay for the medical check.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I headed up to the second floor for “blood and urine”. When I came out of the stairwell, there were no immediate clues as to where to go, and no one around to ask. Once again I felt lost and helpless. The only room labeled in English was physical therapy. Obviously, I did not need to go there, but I thought, if I looked lost and helpless enough, someone would help. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Boy was I wrong. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I saw a single nurse in the two minutes I spend wandering around. When I took a step toward her to try and figure out where I needed to go, she glanced at me for a second before realizing that I was going to attempt to speak English at her. Rather than stop and deal with what might be slightly awkward, she put her head down and scurried off. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This made me laugh inside. I completely understand. If you are scared to do something, i.e. speak a language, you do your best to ignore it. My students attempt this all the time, and it is possible that I might do the same thing in her position.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, I saw it. A man holding the crook of his elbow, a tell-tale sign that he had got blood drawn. I walked in the direction he came from.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I stepped into the “blood and urine” room and handed my paperwork to the first nurse, she immediately asked me in Korean if I speak Korean. I told her a bit. She acknowledged what I said, grabbed a Dixie cup, wrote my information on it, drew a line, and said, “Urine. Here,” while pointing at the line. No lid. No rules. No nothing. Then she directed me to the restroom around the corner. I grabbed the cup and all my things, and while hoping that I had enough urine to fill the cup to the line, I also wondered how they possibly think this is an accurate test. Anyone could do anything to their urine in that multi-stalled restroom. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After successfully (and barely) reaching the urine line, I returned with my cup and stuck it in the appropriate tray, a stainless steel hospital tray, without anything to stop the cups from sliding around. I would hate to be the person that carried that tray full of random people’s urine cups.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Knowing what was coming next, I took off my jacket and sat down so the nurse could take my blood. The nurse kind of directed me through the typical process, mostly in Korean and gestures, band on arm, hand in fist, me looking away from the place where a needle entered my tender inner elbow vein. The only English word she used through the gestures and slow, completely incomprehensible (to me) Korean was the word “blood”, a word I know in Korean. After she finished drawing my blood, she gave me a cotton swab, gestured to me to hold it on the puncture wound for “five minutes”. I did as I was told, put pressure on my puncture wound, and went to go sit in the hall.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Even though I was less than two meters from her, I was out of sight. Almost immediately after I left the room, she started laughing about the situation.&nbsp; She said something something in Korean, “Urine. Blood,” and then laughed at the scenario. Yes, this is a story to tell people. I thought it was amusing that she got such a kick out of how ridiculous the whole situation had become.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, after my five minutes were up, I headed back up to third floor. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was adopted immediately by a nurse who did not speak much English but was incredibly caring and considerate. Each step of the way she guided me, sticking to my side, and making sure I felt safe and secure despite my lack of Korean. First she showed me to the changing room, directing me to remove everything on top through gestures. When I came out of the changing room, she waved me over to the eye exam where I got to show off my knowledge of the words “left” and “right” in Korean. Then it was on to the color-blindness test that I am always nervous I will screw up – colors blend! After that, it was a short scoot over to the blood pressure machine, which is always tricky because of the stress of not knowing what’s going on language wise. I cannot ever tell if my blood pressure is higher than normal because I have been ingesting too much salt or because of the slight stress of the situation. Next, on to measuring my bust line – this is confirmed by all foreign women, but none of us understand what it is all about. Height and weight followed that brief awkwardness. We then went into a private room where I did a listening exam. Hand gestures and noises communicated that when I hear a beep, I should click the button. When I felt I had failed the listening exam, we went to a different, closet-like room for an EKG scan. She had me lay down on the gurney and attached strange little suction cups around my heart. For some reason the nurse could not get a good reading, and she nervously took forever and kept apologizing. Finally, it was time for this caring nurse to pass me on to another woman for the chest/lung x-ray. The entire time, my nurse had not spoken three words of English to me. When she tried to pass me off, her proximity to me (she made sure her whole arm touched mine) and my lack of Korean, did not allow me to understand that she was in fact moving on to the next patient. Finally, she gently pushed me toward the other nurse and said quietly, “Say your name.” Then she was gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The next nurse was a lot more laid back and less concerned that I understood what was happening. She quickly took my chest x-ray to confirm that I was tuberculosis free. Then she set me free. I was not sure what to do next. Was I done? I checked in at the main desk to confirm. My little nurse was nowhere to be found. I really wanted to thank her for being amazing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After confirming that I was finished, I went back to the dressing room. The door was closed, so I waited, assuming that it was busy. An older woman walked by me and walked straight into the changing room. Her daughter said, “Come on! Together!” But her mom said, “No, no, no,” in Korean. Needless to say, I waited, telling the daughter about my confusion with the dressing room while we waited for her mom to change.</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I changed, I realized the whole ordeal was done. In less than an hour, I had been put through a series of challenges and came out in the end, no tears of frustration had been shed. I was finished. It was time to treat myself to lunch and go to work.&nbsp;</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-70560344029075540772015-02-22T07:40:00.000-07:002016-01-25T07:41:16.623-07:00Looking at Art: The Busan Ferry Terminal at Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">The Busan Port at night is a magical place. No one is around and the boats all sit quiet aside from the occasional pilot coming back in from assisting a larger ship out of the port. Near the water, benches are set up, specifically, it seems, to encourage people to watch the port activity. The lights in the distance shine like unflickering fireflies, and the houses disappear into darkness. Cars zoom past at all hours and a stray pedestrian saunters by. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had the occasion to see the port late night on a weekday when I first met Philipp. We wandered here after climbing the hill behind China Town / Texas Street and seeing the port from above. Conversation kept us occupied as we walked and explored. We talked about everything from family to traveling to future dreams. We first connected on our mutual love of Russia, and the topic and storytelling never got old. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Philipp knew about my knowledge of and love for art. He also knew I had taught others how to look at art, so he gave me a challenge. “If this were a work of art, what would you say about it?” “This” referred to the port as it stood in front of us. Excited about the challenge, my eyes lit up, but to be honest, at first I balked a bit at the port being considered artwork. I said, “Ok, let’s imagine this is a photograph. And for whatever reason, what we are looking at now, this, was the perspective chosen by the artist.” I followed this brief and somewhat uninspired statement with a standard starting question for looking at any work of art. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“What do you see?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Before the words came out of his mouth, without even looking at him, I predicted what he would say. He had told me that he always sees things as they are. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Um, ok … what do I see? I see boats and buildings and water.” <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lYB0qd0vIlY/VqYz7D_db8I/AAAAAAAAKrs/3u2_nrQKJjs/s1600/20160109_195103_LLS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lYB0qd0vIlY/VqYz7D_db8I/AAAAAAAAKrs/3u2_nrQKJjs/s640/20160109_195103_LLS.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I started trying to ask him for details or what kind of story he would tell, but even though he was open, his resistance to interpretation was strong. I knew I needed to give him a starting point, so I changed my tune and broke every rule that I have learned for showing children art. You do not usually tell children what you see because of the assumption that the child will think there is a “right” answer. I knew Philipp had more mental capacity than a child, so I forged ahead and broke rules.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ok. Let me tell you what I see. You said you see buildings. Maybe it’s my poor eyesight, but I actually don’t see many buildings, the whole land mass out in the distance is hard to bring into focus. Instead, I see lights scattered around, a bit like fireflies, and I see the reflections on the water. Of course I know there are ships and machinery, but if I really look, that’s not what I see.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He stood there for a moment, taking it in. “Weird. When you were describing all of that, I saw it. Why has no one ever done that for me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At this moment, I realized that Philipp was the kind of person that I admire and want to be around. Even if he does not know something or is not aware of it, he is open to the possibility of its existence. He is open to trying new things, even if it means challenging his world view. That night we decided we had to go to the art museum together.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, the day before Philipp left for Fukuoka, we went to the art museum. I usually prefer to go alone for a variety of reasons, but with Philipp the art museum felt like a different place. He had somehow joined my inner dialogue and brought it out. We joked and laughed and discussed what we saw. He helped me see things that I had not seen on my previous visit to the Busan Bienniale. My personal favorite was his interpretation of a work he nicknamed “CCTV”. The first time I had seen this work of art, I did not know what to make of it. I looked at the grid, the yellow arrows, the brown squiggly lines, the gray circles, and then made a connection between the marks in the grid and the “key” to the artwork below. I made a connection, but I could not jump to a story or an interpretation. The work of art did not stick with me. This second time around was different.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Philipp looked at it for a minute, and then said, “Ok. Should I go first or you?” I told him to go ahead. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“So, this artwork is about monitoring, about America monitoring terrorism. These are cameras, and that is the headquarters. Each time a beard [brown, horizontal zigzag line] is found, a record is made, and that person is watched.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He went on describing his interpretation of what the grid and organizational chart meant. He had a description and connection for each element of the artwork, and I was impressed. He noticed parts of the artwork I had missed and his story made this artwork come alive. With his description, the art became a dynamic, memorable work of art with a story and direction. I appreciated his ability to help me see something I had not seen before.<br /><br />--written in November 2014 about October 8, 2014.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-14492425021918781652015-02-18T04:38:00.000-07:002015-02-18T05:48:15.186-07:00Red Coat is the Coat on Fire<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">I know, most of you think of Katniss Everdeen as the Girl on Fire. But on Friday the 13<sup>th</sup>, my four year old, shapely red wool peacoat, complemented by me and a chintzy bit of Korean, was the Coat on Fire. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It always stuns me when I have had an article of clothing, be in shoes or a coat or a sweater, for a prolonged period of time, and then I have a day of compliments directed toward that old article. On the day before Valentine’s Day, this flurry of compliments might have had something to do with the color of my coat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The evening of Friday the 13<sup>th</sup> started with a coworker, who honestly must have seen this coat 20 or 30 times by now, saying, “Oh. That’s a really nice coat,” like it was the first time he had ever seen it. I shook my head at this lack of observation skills, and said, “Thanks. It's 100% Korea.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After work, I headed out to barbecue with one of my coworker turned friends, and proceeded to impress the new waiter at my regular barbecue place with my functional but limited Korean. I tend to have just enough of this language to get myself into a position where the other person assumes my Korean is a lot more extensive than it actually is. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end of the meal, when we went to the cash register to pay, and I communicated that we wanted to split the bill, the cashier looked at me and said, “Something something pretty something something.” I just looked at him with a question mark on my face. Previously at this barbecue place I have been told I am beautiful by the wait staff (maybe one of the reasons I keep going back), but this guy had never been involved. The question mark may have turned into a, “Really? That’s nice, but come on,” look. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He recovered quickly, and said the same phrase but gestured to my coat. Ah! Ok. Second compliment on a four-year-old coat in one day. This old girl (the coat) must be building some confidence and putting some swing in her skirt. Of course I said thank you in Korean as politely as I could muster under pressure, which mostly just includes the regular thank you and a slight bow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">On my way home, I decided to stop by the new 7-11 and grab a drink. It was still early, and it was my last Friday at work anyway. Why not celebrate? When I went to the cash register, the old man behind the counter went to grab a bag. I had a bag with me, so I told him in Korean, “It’s ok.” He looked at me a bit surprised, repeated the phrase I had said and kind of chuckled. Then told me how much my drinks were.<br /><br />When he saw that I did not have to look at the numbers on the screen and was repeating the numbers in Korean to get correct change, he got a little flustered. He asked me in rapid fire Korean where I was from. This is a question I usually understand, so I knew the speed was a bit too fast because I did not understand. I told him, “I don’t know,” in Korean because I haven’t bothered to learn, “I don’t understand.” He said some of the few words he knew in English to communicate he wanted to know where I was from. This use of English probably increased his adrenaline. I did not have exact change. So I gave him 7,000 won for something that cost 6,800, and I told him in Korean that I was from America. He said something in an approving tone and went to grab my change. I could see his hands were visibly shaking, and then he tried to give me all my money back plus the change I was due. I shook my head, and that confused him. He then tried to give me a different amount. I finally told him as best I could, "I gave you 7,000 won" … really just "7,000 won" is all I know how to say in Korean. He understood. His wife, who had been standing by making sure her new employee did not mess up the till, shook her head at him and smiled at me. Then we all kind of laughed, and I walked out the door. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I could not help but wonder if it was more than just my fragmented Korean that threw him off. I wondered if my coat had been possessed somehow. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">On my walk home, I laughed a bit more and was thankful that I had decided to go home rather than out on a night when I was wearing the Coat on Fire.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHwMAHo7XKk/VOR1xJY8fOI/AAAAAAAADhw/phztV4UpRQg/s1600/171605_497459136761_1896749_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHwMAHo7XKk/VOR1xJY8fOI/AAAAAAAADhw/phztV4UpRQg/s1600/171605_497459136761_1896749_o.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Coat on Fire as it was in 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zxWIUe0U1Y8/VOR3P9wW8bI/AAAAAAAADh8/I4uUbljElLA/s1600/20150218_202556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zxWIUe0U1Y8/VOR3P9wW8bI/AAAAAAAADh8/I4uUbljElLA/s1600/20150218_202556.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">The Coat on Fire as it is today.</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-30515668774031991852014-11-09T08:14:00.000-07:002014-11-09T08:16:20.754-07:00Conversations with Strangers. Part V.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">In preparation for future travels and just to enjoy life more, I have been working on having more human interactions in public places. Overall, I am failing this course. Moscow trained me well to wear a “city face” and stare off into space. For the most part, I do not talk to strangers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, when I got onto the train for Daejeon, searched for my seat, and saw that an older Korean woman was sitting in the seat next to mine, I geared up. I could tell from the look on her face that she was ready to chat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My seat was the aisle, but she insisted that I sit near the window. Because I understood this interaction and the word “sit” in Korean, she continued to speak in Korean. She said something, and I caught the word “pretty.” A nice thing considering I had no make-up on and was wearing my glasses. I said, “Thank you” in Korean. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In Korean, she said, “Ah, you speak Korean!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I knew I was in for it. I tried to slow her down by saying, “a little,” but she continued speaking to me like I understood everything. Maybe if I had studied Korean formally, the phrases she had used would have been familiar. Maybe if I were always surrounded by women this unapologetic, I would learn more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She forged ahead and asked me how long I had been in Korea. To simplify things, I told her “eight,” meaning eight months. I did not know the word for years or months, but I could tell by her surprise and expression, she had understood eight years. I fumbled a bit, then took out my notebook and wrote down the date that I arrived in Busan. February 2014. Then she understood. In retrospect, I suppose it is technically nine months now. I communicated that I taught English. After the end of our short interaction about me, there was a lull. I did not know how to ask her about where she lived or what she did, and like I said, I’m failing the course of conversations with strangers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, at about the time the heat in the train was getting unbearable, she piped up. She made a twisting motion with her hand in the air and said something in Korean that I could not quite make out. Based on how I was feeling, I assumed she was talking about the air being turned on, on the train. The motion could easily be interpreted as such. So, I said, “It’s hot,” and fanned myself a bit. She kind of shook her head, not in disgust, but there was a tinge of frustration. She was a talker and needed to be understood. She repeated herself and made the twisting motion again. <br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, she simplified the thought to one word.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Gam,” she said. “Gam.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I shook my head. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She said, “gam” again, and then wrote with her finger in the air the Korean letters in “gam” <span style="font-family: &quot;Gulim&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Gulim;">감</span>. Luckily I know the Korean alphabet. I guess she could safely assume that because of the bits and parts of Korean that I understood. Still, for some reason, I thought this effort to show me the spelling was odd. Perhaps it was based on her knowledge of English. Maybe she only understood written words. When I shook my head again and told her, “I don’t know,” she said, “gam. Gam,” more loudly. Then she wrote quite emphatically with her finger on the back of the seat in front of us, the three letters that make up “gam” in their syllable block, in Korean.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I could tell she was not going to let it go, and why should she? I live in Korea. I should try to understand what she was getting at. Also, we had a couple hours in front of us. So, I took out my phone and used google translate. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Gulim&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Gulim;">감</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Gulim&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Gulim;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">In my google translate app, only one translation came up. “Feeling.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked at her confused. &nbsp;She glanced over. Then she shook her head and said, “gam,” as if searching. So I tried the other letter in Korean that sometimes sounds like a type of “a” <span style="font-family: &quot;Gulim&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-bidi-font-family: Gulim;">검</span>. That just caused more confusion for me because it means “sword.” Then she did something ingenuous for translating a word that has multiple meanings. She told me a longer phrase. When I typed it in, “persimmon tree” came up. I probably made the most ridiculous, “Ahaa” sound. I knew the word for persimmon in Korean. Why couldn’t I put two and two together?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At that point she must have known exactly how limited my Korean was. She smiled and pointed to herself and communicated that she picks or grows persimmon. Then she rambled on a bit more. I caught “America” “gam”, and I could tell by the intonation it was a question. At this point I started mixing the tiny bit of Korean I had with English to communicate a bigger thought. I tried to tell her, “Yes, we have persimmons in America, but I never tried one until I came to Korea. They are delicious.” I’m certain she understood delicious, but when it came to America, she repeated a similar sounding phrase. She seemed surprised when I said the equivalent of, “Yes, persimmon America.” So I googled “persimmon America” to show her. That seemed to convince her and placate her interest. I tried to communicate my grandma grows apples, by saying the equivalent of “my grandma … apple.” She nodded. I have no idea if she understood. Then the conversation ended abruptly. Language barriers create labor intensive conversation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Not long after, she got up, stood next to the seat, and let the rightful ticket holder take their seat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I dreamed out the window about the landscape, the fall leaves, the biking paths, the river, and the mountains. Then the landscape changed rather abruptly. Orangish-red objects covered dark brown trees that had already dropped all their leaves. Rather than fall leaves of all colors, the hillsides were inundated by persimmon tree upon persimmon tree. Quite appropriately at the train station surrounded by persimmon trees, the older woman got off. She&nbsp;smiled, waved goodbye, and stepped into the landscape of persimmon trees.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-69389306902219148272014-11-04T06:15:00.000-07:002014-11-04T06:16:08.395-07:00Bonding with coworkers somewhere outside Fukuoka, Japan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">At the end of my first two months back in Korea, work organized a trip to Fukuoka, Japan, using PTO days, and arranging for us to travel in a tour group with a tour guide who feigned no English and talked incessantly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The first stop on our tour was the Kirin Brewery. Our visit was short, and much like our bus tour, it did not include much English. We all looked forward to a beer after what had already been a long first morning of vacation. When it came time for beer tasting, our tour guide stopped us, gave us the run down, and gave us a time limit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The gist? Three beers and fifteen minutes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Suddenly, our relaxing vacation had turned into a drinking contest. We had fifteen minutes before we had to be back on the bus, but we were welcome to try as much beer as we would like. Needless to say, we all downed the first glass of beer and went for a second, some of us a third. Then we all hopped on the bus and headed for a resort in the mountains that was supposed to take all our work stress away. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mN3gF3q2W84/VFjQxylDbRI/AAAAAAAADW8/I04jkwf3cCw/s1600/photo%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mN3gF3q2W84/VFjQxylDbRI/AAAAAAAADW8/I04jkwf3cCw/s1600/photo%2B(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The resort in the mountains that would take away all our worries.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">No one had any idea when our next stop would be, and after about an hour of riding through forested mountains, I began to wonder how far away this fabled resort was. My bladder was starting to feel the pressure of the two beers I had ingested. I held my breath a bit and tried to ignore it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I started squeezing my pinky finger. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, a coworker mentioned her bladder. It was time to build up the courage to demand a pit stop.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Just as I was about to speak up because we kept passing rest stop after rest stop, our bus pulled off into a turnout in the middle of the mountains. I stopped. I looked around. I was confused. This did not look like a rest stop. It looked like the side of the road. It consisted of an information sign, a parking lot, and an old, rundown and closed restaurant. The bus turned around and finally came to a stop. A man from our group jumped up and ran off the bus. Clearly, I was not the only one suffering.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I said, “Are we stopping? Is this a restroom?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I knew it was not, but it did not matter. I had to go, and it was either going to happen in the bus and on myself or in the grassy area beside the bus. As I stood up and began the journey from the back of the bus to the door, the tour guide (who “did not speak English” mind you) said to me quite emphatically and in perfect English, “There is no toilet. There is no restroom,” as if men are the only ones who could possibly piss in the woods. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I placed all shame aside and said just as emphatically, “Yes, but I have to GO.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt as if I was going to cry, and I’m sure the tone came across. One of my American cohorts followed suit and was right behind me off the bus. I had no time to be baffled that we were the only ones with full bladders. At this moment, necessity trumped shame, but had it not been for my coworker, my embarrassment at the situation might have been too much. I needed someone to empathize with me. She too could not hold it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As we looked around for a spot out of view of the road, the bus, and the man already pissing, we realized we would have to wait for the first man to clear from his spot. It was literally the only place hidden from the road. By the time he finished, we had been joined by two more of our coworkers.</div><div class="MsoNormal">After what seemed like hours, the first man left our new found haven. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Without a second thought, three of us, all women, ran to the grassy, overgrown area. We pulled down our pants and shamelessly relieved our bladders. Side-by-side we pissed. None of us cared that we squatted nearly too close for comfort. Instead we laughed at the absurdity of the entire situation.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;If this is what my boss had meant by team building, that is what she got. Get us drunk on too much beer, too quickly, and then do not provide a toilet. There was no time for shame or modesty. When you have to pee, you have to pee.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;Of course, after relieving myself, the shame set in.&nbsp; As I stepped back on the bus, I averted my eyes and avoided eye contact with everyone. I was humiliated. When I had a moment to think, I realized that no one else on the bus had gone, and they held their bladders for the next two hours. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Later, my coworkers and I theorized that they were either all wearing diapers or had some high-tech catheters. I would not put it past Korea. There are things here that you never even knew you needed.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-18871684755785130272014-03-09T07:23:00.000-06:002014-03-09T07:24:14.807-06:00The traditional market at Seomyeon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">When I left my apartment Saturday morning, despite my doubts about the directions the Internet gave me, I aimed to find American Apparel and replace my favorite dress. As expected, the map took me the wrong direction, and rather than taking me straight to American Apparel, it created a diversion which lead to a huge traditional market. Without any hesitation, I saw this as an opportunity and put my search for American Apparel on the back burner.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I approached the covered market, I had no idea of its size. When I first entered, my eyes immediately went to the product, and I caught the familiar stares of older Koreans who are not used to seeing a foreigner in their midst. Ignoring the looks, I continued into the market. The smell of dried seaweed, salt, and fresh ocean fish greeted me. I could almost taste each item. As I walked I saw piles of whole fish, squid, and octopus. I saw buckets of clams. I smelled kimchi, herbal tea, and garlic. I saw green onions, peppers, artfully stacked apples, and Korean traditional rice desserts. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I sauntered on further, at a pace much slower than usual. Finally, I looked up and saw the market's great expanse. The aisle seemed to continue on indefinitely, and myriad directional options surrounded me. Should I turn left toward the upper part of the market with sunlight, napa cabbage and daikon radishes the size of small babies, turn right toward bean sprouts and a large variety of dried beans and peas, or keep going straight toward even more fish, carts of sweet potatoes, and orderly piles of red and green hot peppers? In the end, I decided straight, straight, straight for my first route through the market. I could always return via another route to the aisles I missed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The displays were precisely arranged and aesthetically appealing. The stall keepers took great pride in their work, constantly arranging and rearranging as product disappeared from their tables and bins. No one except those with mobile carts bothered to yell out what they were selling and for how much, so the market remained calm and welcoming, even with the occasional scooter and a large number of people working, buying, and gawking.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I continued to wander through the market and was astounded at the amount of product these sellers had and were able to prepare. Weeks of work lie ahead for the couple with countless heads of garlic. As I gazed in amazement at this stall, a man, surrounded by bags of garlic sat peeling and separating individual garlic cloves. Korea is a country where many people prefer to purchase their garlic peeled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Evidence of work already done showed with fresh peppers next to dried peppers and dried peppers next to crushed peppers. My mind jumped to my experience of Pike’s Place market in Seattle. The scale of this market was much larger and the products sold much more practical. While Pike’s Place does serve a practical function for select Seattleites looking for fresh fish, the main appeal seems to be touristic and the majority of stalls I remember sold flowers. On the other hand, while Korea is working to promote traditional markets as a tourist attraction, the markets serve a very real and necessary function for local farmers and family dinner tables. Dried peppers and garlic cloves brought that point home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Overwhelmed by the market, and realizing that I could not carry fresh vegetables, fish, and other pleasantries around all day to American Apparel, the Busan Museum of Art, and wherever else I wandered, I vowed to shop at the traditional market near my apartment.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-87176691541029303552014-02-26T07:42:00.003-07:002014-02-26T15:46:52.748-07:00Back in South Korea: Zigzag travel in Busan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Trinkets, small figurines, shelves of memorabilia from travel abroad, travel books, pillows, Christmas lights, and small plants adorn a café the size of a two room apartment. These carefully chosen details help to create an inspiringly homey atmosphere.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">From the moment I saw the sign with three stacked drawers, I knew this was a café I wanted to visit. Even though the weather hardly permitted patio coffee, two chairs and a small table where artfully arranged on the front porch. On the table were locally created, artsy information booklets about Busan in both English and Korean. Small bits of green, starts of plants, grew in tiny pots on the patio. After two minutes of taking it all in, I consulted my new friend, and we entered the cutest café I have ever seen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On a small street, a couple blocks from Gwangalli Beach, tucked into a small building sits a café with not many foreign visitors. Off the beaten beach path and lacking an ocean view, the appeal of this café lies not in its view, but in the creativity and passion which has been poured into every detail, every drink, and every chair cushion.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cW3OKlv5TUk/Uw38gP87-dI/AAAAAAAAC-4/X-f1bCkBkKw/s1600/IMG_3014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cW3OKlv5TUk/Uw38gP87-dI/AAAAAAAAC-4/X-f1bCkBkKw/s1600/IMG_3014.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Espresso ice cube coffee</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The drinks come out arranged on small wooden platters with animals specific to the beverage. Comment books sit on the table and provide insight about others who have stumbled upon the tiny little oasis.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This café reconfirmed my chosen method of exploration, something Tahir Shah called 'zigzag travel.'&nbsp;“Real adventure can only come about through zigzag travel. One of life’s great sensations is walking along a road without any idea where it leads or what will happen next.” – p.379 <i>In Arabian Nights</i>Tahir Shah</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In my time outside my comfort zone, and even in it, I have found that the best way to explore a place is to wander. I usually do this alone and sometimes it means I go without food, without water, without any purpose or aim. I enter places that capture my imagination and shun places which scream at me. I seek out side roads and back doors. I look for the places which most tourists do not ever see. I search for places locals find refuge in and pride myself in scouting out well-kept secrets and keeping them. I share only with fellow wanderers or with those who may never see the places. I have found that an unwalkable city is a place I do not want to be and that wandering is a good exercise in indecisive decision making.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As a solo wanderer, I usually give places space and time. I do not always immediately enter a cute café or intriguing restaurant because I feel, like a good purchase, the idea needs to percolate. The café needs to enter my dreams and tap on my shoulder each time I walk by it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Every once in a while, I find someone willing to explore with me. It is those times, accompanied by a fellow creative type, that I am more willing to jump in, take even lesser beaten paths, and enter establishments without first vetting them in my dreams.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">After my first weekend back in Korea, my decision of Busan has been confirmed as one of the best and most informed decisions I have made in my 28+ years on this Earth thanks to the Gwangan District and this tiny café, which will remain undisclosed.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AUEpO1Hvwwo/Uw3-H0z_JEI/AAAAAAAAC_M/3_aNDGzXFSU/s1600/IMG_3023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AUEpO1Hvwwo/Uw3-H0z_JEI/AAAAAAAAC_M/3_aNDGzXFSU/s1600/IMG_3023.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div><br /></div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-24296775003140249712013-09-22T22:45:00.001-06:002013-11-04T21:48:40.607-07:00Conversations with Strangers. PART IV.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">Boise is a place where strangers do not talk in bars, and they hardly engage in grocery store banter. Boiseans talk to each other in circumstances that would make people in other, larger cities cringe. In Boise, the bus has become a great forum for conversation. Add to this, downtown – especially The Grove and 8<sup>th</sup> street – and public parks. I would not be surprised if parking garages could be added to the list. All of these locations are places in which city dwellers around the world put on their “do not talk to me face” and stick in their ear buds, stare vacantly, or talk on the phone to avoid the crazy person attempting to make conversation, attempting to make them vulnerable. In Moscow, people who tried to talk to strangers on public transit – more than just asking for directions – were shunned. In Boise these conversational locations are somehow encouraged, and the longer I stay here, the more I become used to talking to strangers in previously avoided situations. I do not really want to come across as rude, you know. Boise is a place where you can be walking down the street, in typical city body language for “do not even think about it,” and you may be stopped by a random stranger.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Case in point. Date: Saturday, September 21, 2013 Time: around 4:00 p.m. Location: 8<sup>th</sup> Street near Jamba Juice and the construction of the new Mormon Temple, sorry, Zion’s Bank.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2hOwuWWCsmc/Uj_Iu36fSuI/AAAAAAAACF4/XrIEwHZCSo0/s1600/IMG_2401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2hOwuWWCsmc/Uj_Iu36fSuI/AAAAAAAACF4/XrIEwHZCSo0/s400/IMG_2401.JPG" width="335" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was walking at a fairly decent pace down the street toward the Grove. Both of my ear buds were in, and I was listening to Elliott Smith. I was not making eye contact with anyone but looking straight ahead. I hardly noticed the group of kids hanging out by the “rat race” escalator below Shige’s and near Jamba Juice. They are always there. I did not even look over at the new construction, since I see it every day. I did not glance toward the mounds of people I was coming upon. I kept my pace.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Suddenly there was a guy in “punk rock” garb walking alongside me, saying something. I have no idea what he was saying, I was in what they used to call iPod oblivion, which now sounds ridiculous and archaic. When I noticed him, I looked over, kept walking, and raised an eyebrow – as much as possible with my bangs. I took my ear buds out and said in an unwelcoming tone, “What? (as in huh? I did not catch what you were saying because I was listening to music, jack ass.)” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This is my typical tone when someone decides to interrupt my commute. In most circumstances, my hostility turns to friendliness because the person is merely asking for directions to a place that is usually directly in front of them. These circumstances have happened more than once, and the response to my “What?” is usually an “Oh” because for some ridiculous reason, the person did not notice the bright pink things in my ears. And then what follows (if the person is trying to strike up conversation) is an oblivious repeating of whatever they think is so important that they must keep talking, despite my tone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="FR">PUNK ROCK KID’S IMPORTANT CONVERSATION<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="FR"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="FR">“Hi. </span>My name is _____.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I honestly do not remember the kid’s name because I did not care to meet him. I was on a mission – to get to the hair salon. I had not washed my hair in two days and did not particularly feel like talking to strangers, but Boise has worn on me. So, while I kept walking, I did give this kid the time of day but not without taking in his appearance. With a start of a mohawk, a clean, studded camo vest with patches, and no particular odor, this kid quite obviously was not a “real” punk rocker, of the genre that live on the street or ten to an apartment that is supposed to live two. This kid probably lived with his parents or went to Boise State and lived in the dorms. I chuckled to myself. If he only knew the bad asses I hung out with as a teenager. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;“Hi. I’m Kim.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Without missing a beat the kid said, “You are looking good today, Kim.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Laughing to myself because of how gross I felt with unwashed hair, wearing jeans and a sweater, I said, “Thanks.” I have to admit this kid had some <i>cojones</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Can I get your number?” The kid asked. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Continuing to laugh to myself, all the while continuing to walk, I replied, “I don’t even have my phone with me.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A bit sarcastically this kid said, “Well, do you know your number?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, I know my number. What are you going to do with it?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At that point, I had to stop walking due to the traffic light. There was a small, Boise-sized crowd of people waiting at the light with us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m going to call you, of course. Well, not today because I don’t have a phone but tomorrow. I will definitely call you tomorrow.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Right. So, what are you going to do, memorize my number?” I replied, humored by his ridiculous attempt to seem genuine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point he promptly pulled out the newest little spiral notebook from his breast pocket (another clue that this kid was neither a punk rocker nor a writer). “I’m going to write it in here.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">To humor him, and because he made me laugh, I gave him my number and then said, “How many numbers do you need to win the bet?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He looked confused, and I had to repeat myself which of course took away from the humor of the situation. But hell, if you are going to ask for a girl’s number in that way, you should expect to be made fun of. As I walked across Main Street and away from this clean cut “punk rocker,” I overheard a couple ladies, from the crowd of people that witnessed most of this situation, asking each other, “What if he asked for your number?” Oh Boise.&nbsp;</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-11639686722777330982013-09-14T19:19:00.000-06:002013-09-22T23:05:02.846-06:00When I was a child, I spoke as a child ...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">As a child, I always worried about consequences. I never took the risks that most children did. Consequently, I always felt like I was not having as much fun as my peers, and I probably was not. I did not want to draw attention to myself, get hurt, or get in trouble. I preferred to spend my time observing the world. Watching other children do daring things, and taking note of the incredible lives of ants that hung out in my back yard. I had a hard time doing things like jumping out of a swing or jumping off the high dive. Eventually I convinced myself to do simple things like that. Logically it was safe. But I never jumped off a rope swing into the river, and I never did anything too daring. In my mind, daring things always involved heights or fear of death (usually only perceived, not actual). Childhood was a serious time for me. A time full of consequences. When I got older, I started caring a bit less, but there are still times with those feelings and worry of getting into trouble come back. As an adult, I am expected to act like an adult, be responsible, and not encourage delinquency. I am not supposed to mess around and try to make up for all the fun I did not have as a child.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But sometimes I meet someone else who did the same thing in childhood, maybe in a different way, but someone who took life too seriously and now is trying to make up for lost time and fit in all in before life gets too serious.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">One of these experiences was with a friend who currently is training to be a Navy SEAL. I do not know if there is anything more serious in life than that. When he came to visit before he started training, we explored the Capitol building, and for some reason, we both started feeling a bit like kids. Well, I felt like a kid, he might always feel this way. It might have been the atmosphere. It might have been that in our wandering we somehow felt like we were secretly exploring places that we should not be able to access. Perhaps it was pure mischievousness of the mind, active imaginations, and ideas of the things we could be doing or discussions of what it would have been like to be in these areas with the legislative body in session. Perhaps it was finding an unlocked window that would have allowed us to go onto the roof if we were not observant enough to realize that there were guards down below. It might have been that I have always wanted to go up in the dome of the Capitol – or at least figure out how to access the stairs that lead to the top. Whatever it was, a mischievous child-like quality took over. Fortunately or unfortunately, it was not all encompassing. Consequences remained foremost in my mind …</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">So, I did not get on my friend’s shoulders and open a window. We did not climb out on the roof of the Capitol. And in the midst of a great game of lava, we stopped running around the Capitol building because I saw a guard.&nbsp; We most definitely did not play mission impossible and jump from the first floor down to the bottom floor. But I am happy to know my imagination is still intact. I can goof around like a child, even though I am adult.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-833092669108812732013-05-12T20:51:00.001-06:002013-09-22T23:04:53.022-06:00Conversations with Strangers. PART III.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Arrive at park.<br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Notice a guy folding up an orange blanket and looking like he is going to leave.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Walk to my usual spot, on the hill, underneath the tree, just far enough away from the bench. Set my bag down and take out my maroon, plaid blanket. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Guy wanders aimlessly away from me through the park. I try to ignore him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Call my mom. Chat about the difficulty of meeting new people.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Guy comes back around and passes me while I talk to my mom. He takes a seat on the bench. Pretends to read. How do I know he is pretending? Too much page flipping and nervous energy emanating off of him. I end the call with my mom and decide to draw.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Draw the swing set. Modify it because I don’t want four swings, just two. It’s an ok sketch, but not wonderful.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bd6FkDbad4E/UZBX4fW3UJI/AAAAAAAAB-s/z3VA06XIfUE/s1600/IMG_18431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bd6FkDbad4E/UZBX4fW3UJI/AAAAAAAAB-s/z3VA06XIfUE/s400/IMG_18431.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pull out my journal of short stories and start reading the next story – it’s about a soldier.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Think I hear a cicada and remember that I had the same thought when I entered the park. Just one cicada. And then it is gone. Probably not a cicada. Regardless the noise makes me miss Korea. Weird to miss Korea because of an imaginary cicada.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Distracted from the story about the soldier, I start trying to draw a cicada. I only saw one up close once. It was so LOUD. Deafening. Weird ancient looking creature. What did it look like? How big were its wings? I attempt to sketch one.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnSAsRZumRY/UZBYEcPt4bI/AAAAAAAAB-0/7xiCF6KhqXA/s1600/IMG_18441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnSAsRZumRY/UZBYEcPt4bI/AAAAAAAAB-0/7xiCF6KhqXA/s400/IMG_18441.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It looks like a fly.<br /><br />Try again. <br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6KZ9dR3GFR4/UZBYFgU9huI/AAAAAAAAB-8/2dlKdBsiT0o/s1600/IMG_18461.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6KZ9dR3GFR4/UZBYFgU9huI/AAAAAAAAB-8/2dlKdBsiT0o/s400/IMG_18461.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Give up. The google will help me when I get home.<br /><br />Start writing another letter to my friend in Navy Basic. The story about the soldier made me think of him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was lying on my stomach, but now I am sitting. Criss-cross apple sauce, as my students like to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had forgotten about the guy. He is obviously yelling his question to me, but I can be cold at first. I roll my eyes. He can’t see my face. I ignore him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He comes over. Starts a conversation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“What are you writing?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“A letter – archaic form of communication, I know.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fuck. That was pretentious. I am pretentious for the rest of the conversation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He offers me a spritzer – I am unclear what that even means. I like sparkling water and assume it is similar.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s sparking water and juice.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Seems French.”&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I continue to be pretentious – I don’t even know why at this point. He is from Seattle. He is not wearing shoes. His Ray-Bans shield his eyes from my pretentiousness. The things I talk about are ridiculous for a conversation with a stranger. Somehow I am talking about refugees and Boise’s public transit and geography. I mention Russia and Korea.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am an ass.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He is polite – talks about the Payette, his love of Idaho, asks me about my plans for the weekend. I look at my phone, vaguely talk of movie plans.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He tells me to enjoy the movie and makes his move to leave.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It is a bit of an awkward parting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Take care!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He grabs his orange blanket and book from the bench. Walks past me through the park.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-59055249884033229562013-02-04T23:44:00.000-07:002013-02-05T22:48:22.665-07:00How not to stay at a hostel: Winning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /><div class="MsoNormal">She pushes the buzzer hard. The host unlocks the gate. She pushes the buzzer again, holding it longer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s open!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She opens the security gate/front door to the hostel with a bit of grumbling. Yes, it is not the best set up, having to pull the gate toward you and step backwards down a couple stairs, but it is what it is. A blond girl attempts to saunter up the stairs with her&nbsp;chauffeur&nbsp;and hundred pound suitcase lumbering after her. Immediately she begins to complain and act righteous. <br /><br />“I have a reservation here for two weeks.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, you&nbsp;aren't&nbsp;in our system …”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, there is no reason, other than the fact that the host could tell this girl was going to be difficult, that he hesitated. There was plenty of room at the hostel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mid-conversation, the girl turns to her&nbsp;chauffeur, “Where’s my scarf? I had a scarf in the car.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“There’s no scarf in the car. These are all your things.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I lost my scarf. I know I had one in the car.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Somehow, despite all of this and not having Mexican Pesos, the girl successfully checks in. She then makes the&nbsp;chauffeur&nbsp;take her luggage into the dormitory, bangs her bag around a bit, abandons all her possessions in the middle of the room, and leaves with her&nbsp;chauffeur.<br /><br />The girl disappears until 4 a.m. She fumbles to get the key in the lock. Then, the girl pushes and pulls at the door that will not unlock. Frustrated with the tricky lock, the girl did not try it sober, so drunk, there is no chance. She turns the key continuously in the wrong direction. She locks the door. It cannot be opened from the inside. The girl swears. Finally, she is rescued by the host, who has stumbled out of his room. &nbsp;She bursts into the dormitory, shushing herself. She has no sheets and has not set up a bed, so she crawls under a mattress protector and passes out. Moments later her phone rings, but she does not answer. Her first night in Puerto Vallarta, she passes out without sheets, too drunk to care. &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In the morning, she has a hard time remembering. What she does remember is partying with her&nbsp;chauffeur. &nbsp;At the end of the night, she shelled out cash to cover all of his expenses. Outraged, she did not understand. She was under the impression that the&nbsp;chauffeur&nbsp;really wanted to take her out. It turns out, she had hired a date or a tour guide of Vallartan night life without knowing it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She sounds young,&nbsp;naive.&nbsp;Maybe this is the first time she has&nbsp;traveled&nbsp;alone. But she is 36. She has been travelling around the world, surviving on the goodhearted dime of Christian missions. I do not know how she is alive.&nbsp;</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-11412359325028913232013-01-30T23:23:00.003-07:002013-01-30T23:28:32.708-07:00A productive layover in San Francisco: Finding Rothko at SFMOMA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When I arrived at SFMOMA, I had no idea where to start. With five floors and only an hour and a half before closing, I had to choose. I picked up the map with exhibition summaries.&nbsp;Then I saw it, a tiny thumbnail.&nbsp;It was a Rothko.<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lBq16USFCzY/UQoKrlvw2mI/AAAAAAAAB68/3LndVYVzmoQ/s1600/97.524_01_b02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lBq16USFCzY/UQoKrlvw2mI/AAAAAAAAB68/3LndVYVzmoQ/s320/97.524_01_b02.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark Rothko,&nbsp;<i>No. 14,&nbsp;</i>1960 <a href="http://www.sfmoma.org/">www.sfmoma.org</a></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />Suddenly I had a mission. Find the Rothko. Ever since I first saw an image of Mark Rothko’s work in an art history book, I wanted to see his work in person. Now I had a chance. I walked briskly up the stairs, found the exhibition, and began wandering through. Surprised by the breadth of SFMOMA’s permanent collection, I saw many things I knew from art history surveys. Henri Matisse’s <i>La Femme au Chapeau</i>greeted visitors to the exhibition. Moholy-Nagy’s artwork hung in the next room. Then,&nbsp;I headed into another era of modern art which included work by Picasso. <br /><br />As I entered the abstracts, something nagged at the periphery of my vision. I turned to my left, and I saw it. The Rothko. It took up an entire wall, and its allure drew me through a gallery, or two, full of work by Dali, Magritte, and Duchamp. Aware of how ridiculous it all seemed, I felt drawn by the painting. If I tried to ignore it, my curiosity would nag. I would not be able to enjoy anything until I had seen the Rothko.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As the Rothko began to envelop me, I stopped, just outside its grasp, behind the bench and a little off center. Another visitor sat on the bench in front of the painting. Despite surroundings that would normally serve as distractions, the indigo and orange vibrated off the eggplant background. The other visitor became part of the experience. I stepped closer to the painting, observing the feel of the oil paint on canvas. The sheen had been mostly absorbed by the canvas. I felt welcomed and surrounded by the painting. I felt like crying for joy. The painting not only drew me nearer, it pulled emotions out. Afraid that I would interrupt someone else’s experience, I stepped over to the didactic wall panel. The wall panel explained that the painting usually evoked a highly emotional response and even though many people wanted to step back from the painting, it was meant to encompass the viewer. I moved further away and closer to the painting. Observing details. Having a dialogue with the artwork. Wondering at the power of such a seemingly simple idea. In awe of Rothko’s ability to choose colors which resonated so well. I stayed near the painting for nearly ten minutes before I realized that other works of art were on the walls near the Rothko. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, the question hit me. As a curator, what would you place next to a painting with such presence? What could possibly let the Rothko speak and at the same time not be completely covered by the Rothko’s voice? To the left of the painting was a Motherwell entitled <i>Elegy to the Spanish Republic</i>. While Rothko's work demanded attention, Motherwell’s painting held its own. Its lack of color sharply contrasted the Rothko, and its size competed well.&nbsp; To fully observe the it, I had to turn my back on the Rothko, and this served&nbsp;<i>Elegy </i>well. Yet, to the right of Rothko's painting, another painting with abstract shapes and various colors utterly failed at capturing my attention. <br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-apgneslHsJ0/UQoICDK6DyI/AAAAAAAAB6g/0I86vbP2Khc/s1600/Elegy+to+the+Spanish+Republic+-+Motherwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-apgneslHsJ0/UQoICDK6DyI/AAAAAAAAB6g/0I86vbP2Khc/s400/Elegy+to+the+Spanish+Republic+-+Motherwell.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Motherwell, <i>Elegy to the Spanish Republic, No. 57,</i>&nbsp;1957-1960. <a href="http://www.sfmoma.org/">www.sfmoma.org</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br />After I had taken in the entire gallery installation, I stepped back and began watching others. Statistically museum visitors spend less than 3 seconds per work of art, but this Rothko must have a higher average. The bench placed in front of it signaled that or, perhaps, it encouraged visitors to linger. Whatever the case, the bench enabled me to observe people as they interacted with the artwork. It was amusing. Some were like me and could not pull themselves away. Very few passed up the Rothko. And unlike many works of art where I want to have the whole piece to myself, step into the painting, and not be disturbed, Rothko’s work had such influence over others that watching them encounter the painting became as much a part of the experience as the painting itself.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w5XiuAU7-NU/UQoIB475hjI/AAAAAAAAB6c/htP53zT8alI/s1600/SFMOMA_San_Francisco_Rothko_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="313" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w5XiuAU7-NU/UQoIB475hjI/AAAAAAAAB6c/htP53zT8alI/s400/SFMOMA_San_Francisco_Rothko_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mark Rothko,&nbsp;<i>No. 14,&nbsp;</i>1960&nbsp;at SFMOMA&nbsp;<a href="http://www.alexfradkin.com/">www.alexfradkin.com</a>&nbsp;</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-26499648719459303522013-01-27T21:58:00.000-07:002013-01-27T22:57:35.302-07:00Beware of buses with plain interiors in Guadalajara<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Bus drivers in Guadalajara generally take great pride in suiting up their buses. Fuzzy frames surround the mirrors, black lights, tinted windows, rosaries, and icons of the Virgin Mary or Jesus adorn the bus. While I was surprised at the level of care taken on many buses, I did not think that a bus without such adornments meant anything different until I boarded such a bus.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bWqB7oiv3Sg/UQYDnL5t9dI/AAAAAAAAB6M/suuERezk0O4/s1600/ruta+629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bWqB7oiv3Sg/UQYDnL5t9dI/AAAAAAAAB6M/suuERezk0O4/s400/ruta+629.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Image of a typical bus in Guadalajara (borrowed from&nbsp;<a href="http://us.fotolog.com/citus11000/mosaic/">http://us.fotolog.com/citus11000/mosaic/</a>)</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I stepped on, the bus seemed older and the seats were closer together, but the lack of signage and&nbsp;decor&nbsp;did not faze me. The bus flew down the road. Traffic jams abounded, and the driver alternated between slamming on the brake and stomping on the gas. My mind drifted to Ulsan, South Korea, where daily bus rides felt this way, and I thought I would fly through the front window with each stop. Passengers on this bus in Guadalajara made comments. Those seated braced themselves for the jolts using their legs and hands, trying not to crash into the seat or person in front of them. Despite my attempts to brace myself, with every sudden stop, I slid further down the seat and the lack of legroom became painfully clear as my knees hit the seat in front of me. With each jerk, a new series of cries from passengers would arise. The passenger behind me darkly joked that we would all lose our teeth. Some people rubbed their necks. While the bus was initially crowded, it gradually emptied with passengers finding their stops or bailing to find another, hopefully more careful, driver. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As the bus began to empty, and the jolting and traffic jams worsened, a passenger walked up to the front of the bus and shoved his smart phone in front of the driver’s face. This lead to an intense showdown. The driver stopped the bus, threw off his seat belt, jumped up, and yelled at the passenger. He asked for a fight gesturing for the passenger to take his place. From my perspective, without knowing Spanish, I assumed the passenger was drunk and doing something obscene like trying to show the driver a video from YouTube (perhaps of a better driver). While I thought jumping up and screaming was a bit of an extreme reaction, I understood the stress of driving in backed up traffic, and the driver did not having a barrier to protect him from unpredictable passengers as he attempted to maneuver through traffic. &nbsp;Because of my experiences in Moscow and elsewhere, I had given the driver the benefit of the doubt and assumed that the passenger was in the wrong. Yet, with the help of a friend to translate the sequence of events, I understood the error of my interpretation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Buses in Mexico generally have a posted phone number to call and let the bus company know how the driver is doing. The driver’s license number is posted as well, so the company can easily identify the driver. This bus not only lacked adornment. Its walls were completely bare. No signage existed. So, one disgruntled, ballsy passenger walked up to the front of the bus and asked the driver if he could take a picture of his license because he could not find the number anywhere. The driver refused to let the passenger get his license number. So the passenger became more insistent and let the driver know that he wanted to place a complaint. The ride was atrocious. At that point the driver blew up. He went into a rage, jumped up, threw off his&nbsp;seat belt&nbsp; and yelled at the passenger. With body language, he challenged the passenger a fight. He had had a long day with no lunch break and how would the passenger like to be the driver?! “Take a seat! Drive! See if you can do better!” In resolution, the passenger was kicked off the bus. While I was a bit astounded at the occurrence, I am certain this driver was at the cusp of losing his job before this occurrence. Why else would there be no signage posted in the bus? Why else would he explode so easily?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, not all disgruntled bus drivers behave in such a manner. In fact, the next day, I commented on how lighthearted our driver was. He was younger and probably newer at the job. He joked with another driver that was driving a bus alongside ours, and while my friend told me he had been complaining to the other driver about how much he hated driving a bus, he did not do a bad job. Yet in the rallying with the other driver, a strange thing happened. At a stoplight, our driver signaled to the other to open his door, and he made another signal for a lighter. Suddenly our driver was smoking. I turned to my friend and asked if that was normal. She shook her head. As we looked around the bus, sure enough, there was a no smoking sign. I just shook my head and laughed. I am certain bus drivers break small rules everywhere, not just in Mexico.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, should you be afraid of riding a bus in Guadalajara? No. Just be ready for an adventure. According to my friends neither of these experiences were typical for Guadalajara, but if you are searching for adventure, look for a plain bus, not one decked out with fuzzy mirrors and playboy bunny stickers.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-26349350438173449672012-10-31T23:30:00.002-06:002012-10-31T23:30:34.979-06:00Foreign Language Compartment (of my brain)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /><div class="MsoNormal">My brain seems to have a compartment entitled “Not English”. Each new word acquisition, no matter the foreign language, gets filed in the same area. When it comes time to respond to someone on the spot, this filing system fails horribly. Imagine a disorganized, lower-level secretary under fire from the CEO to hand over the correct file immediately. Sometimes the frantically grabbed file is the correct one, and sometimes it’s a random assortment of mixed up language. This has given rise to several interesting, awkward, and entertaining moments. &nbsp;One such moment is recounted below.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">BARCELONA TAXI DRIVER (June 2010)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">On the plane from Moscow to Amsterdam and then from Amsterdam to Barcelona, I silently practiced the little Spanish I knew … “<i>Hola</i>”, “<i>Me llamo Kimberly</i>”, “<i>Donde esta el baño?</i>”,&nbsp;“<i>Mi Casa es su casa</i>”, &nbsp;“<i>Si</i>”<i>&nbsp;</i>… you know, all the basics and essentials. So when I stepped into the airport in Barcelona, of course I forgot everything. Thanks to picture signs that pointed me in the right direction, I easily found my luggage and made my way to the taxi station. As I walked toward the front of the taxi line, I remembered that I had smartly written down the address of the hostel where I would be staying. I rummaged in my bag for the scrap of paper. Suddenly, my turn to jump in the next taxi had come. Fumbling with the scrap, I handed over my luggage and the address to the taxi driver without a word. My brain remained frozen. The taxi driver asked me a question in Spanish that I understood. Under immediate pressure to surge into action, the frozen and unorganized foreign language filing system of my brain lurched. The first words out of my mouth were, “<i>Dah</i>” followed 10 seconds later by a shaking of the head (signifying a quick thaw) and a lot less confident, “… uh, <i>Si.</i>” I had just come from Russia, so I tried to give myself a break. The taxi driver looked at me a bit strangely (perhaps with recognition of a failing foreign language filing system?), and we both silently got in the taxi. After a few strained minutes of silence, and after I had repeated the bit of Spanish I knew over and over in my head, I summoned up the courage to ask, “<i>Habla ingles?</i>” He responded with a great deal of relief, “Yes!” He explained that he did speak a bit of Spanish but not as comfortably as he spoke English. He was from&nbsp;Pakistan&nbsp;- I had not even considered that he wasn't from Spain. He then asked if I was Russian (because I had first spoken Russian to him). He apologized that he didn't speak Russian. I explained that I had spent a couple years in Moscow, but no I’m American. I speak English. As he drove me to the hostel, we chatted a bit more. I laughed to myself about my many false assumptions and the foreign language compartment of my brain.&nbsp;</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-36222324538123162312012-09-21T00:33:00.001-06:002012-10-30T18:26:25.256-06:00Is this apartment up to code?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I used to assume that living in the&nbsp;North End&nbsp;of Boise, a 10 minute walk from downtown in the largest city in Idaho, in the United States of America would preclude experiences like tripping a breaker due to shotty wiring. I have since learned that <a href="http://kimberlyeron.blogspot.com/2009/03/wonders-of-soviet-electric-wiring.html">Russian electrical shottiness</a> may not be half as bad as a job by a lazy or underpaid electrician. The difference between the two countries may be that I could report this apartment in Boise to the fire marshal and something might be done, while in Russia I would just live with it. Now, the assumption that the fire marshal would take action … well, that may be proven false. In fact as I have started to learn, dishonesty, bribery, and corruption are alive and well in Idaho as well as Russia … but that’s a story for another day …<br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Back to the event(s) that caused my disillusionment with American safety standards and fire codes. When I first moved into the second smallest place I have ever lived in (128 square feet / 12 square meters), I anticipated that life would be a little different. I would have less counter space, sleep on a pseudo-Korean style mat on the floor, live without an oven barring my trusty old toaster oven, experiment with an interesting contraption that combines sink, range, and fridge, not to mention live on a modified/enclosed porch. Yet, I never dreamed of the electrical issues that would pile up, one on top of the other until the breaking point (tripping point?) when my new neighbors bought microwave popcorn. <br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-owJRG6kF6gs/UFwJFEj48wI/AAAAAAAABzo/JS-u3yKd_h4/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-owJRG6kF6gs/UFwJFEj48wI/AAAAAAAABzo/JS-u3yKd_h4/s320/photo+3.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To the right is the wonder that combines range, sink, and refrigerator</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal">The first night in my new apartment, I blew my surge protector by trying to run the range, fridge, and toaster oven through the same extension cord. And in the first couple weeks, I tripped the breaker and learned my lesson about not running the fan, the toaster oven, the stove, and my hair dryer at the same time. When that occurred I was running late for work, so I got in the car and called the landlord asking them to flip the breaker. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Several months went by. I effectively avoided running too many things at once and relied on the ability to use both burners and the toaster oven at the same time while making dinner. I succeeded in cooking breakfast and dinner for different people on three or four separate occasions. All was fine and dandy until the “new” neighbors and their microwave popcorn moved in. Of course, I only discovered this when making dinner for someone I hoped to impress. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I began steaming broccoli, frying potatoes, and baking fish gradually pushing the circuitry to its extremes. The overhead fan cooled the apartment on this balmy Wednesday evening. Everything functioned perfectly. Timing couldn’t have been better with the preparedness of each dish. As we drank rosé and noshed on toasted bread with olive tapenade, I relished my accomplishment … a little too soon. In the middle of preparation, the cooking lights went dark. The fan slowed. I rolled my eyes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Something tripped the breaker.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I stepped out the front door trying to laugh off the faultiness of this electrical system, I ran into my “new” neighbor. He sauntered out of his apartment. He jabbered a bit about popcorn. I asked him if he knew where the breaker was. No idea. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">During the previous electrical incident, the landlord had informed me that the breaker was at the back of the house … my guest, new neighbor, and I all tried to sort the situation. Tens of breakers existed on the side of the house. And at the back of the house, another neighbor emerged complaining that her TV had gone off. How many people were on this one elusive breaker? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After much searching, consternation, and the determination of my neighbors to use the microwave, which I’m blaming (they always seem to be the issue … the microwave served as the<a href="http://kimberlyeron.blogspot.com/2009/03/wonders-of-soviet-electric-wiring.html">tripping point in Moscow</a> as well.), the breaker was located and flipped back on. It immediately tripped several times successively until we switched everything off. Unfortunately, this was not a singular dinner experience but was repeated the next week, when, luckily, I was not trying to impress anyone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Lessons learned? A) My neighbors should chuck their microwave. B) It’s important to locate the breaker switch for your “new” apartment and try to determine how many other places are hooked up to the same. C) The wonders of "Soviet" electric wiring are not far from the wonders of "American" electric wiring.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-85549406816870921072012-03-22T22:33:00.002-06:002012-03-23T11:47:04.638-06:00Bits of reverse culture shock: The price of cheese and bread<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Long story short, I recently returned from a little over a month in the South of France. &nbsp;After a bit more than three years away, I am now back in Boise, Idaho, and the reverse culture shock is hitting home.<br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">While I spent the last three years adjusting to Russian cuisine and groceries, then to Korean cuisine and groceries, and briefly to French cuisine and groceries, my decision to return to Boise has lead to a lot of balking by my taste buds.&nbsp; And their complaints don’t have much to do with the things I left behind in Korea or Russia.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Would you like some cheese with that whine?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">A bit of kimchi or a pirozhki every once in a while never hurt anyone, and I’m sure, eventually, I will have the desire to make something Russian again. But the main problem I have with the groceries in Boise is the simple cost of bread and cheese. I am no longer in Korea where it was expected to pay an arm, a leg, and half your first born child for a bit of decent cheese. Rather, I’m in a country that has plenty of space to grow the wheat needed to make baguette, and a plethora of dairy cows that can make perfectly decent cheese. I half expected French cheeses – made in France, mind you – to be more expensive than domestic cheeses. Yet, what I have found is there are plenty of imported French cheeses that cost the same amount as domestic cheeses. Why, I ask myself, does that make any sense? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, even though, I half expected it, most shocking of all is the price of well-known, imported, French cheeses. &nbsp;For example, in Marseille St. Albray, a fairly mild, creamy, delicious cheese made from cow’s milk, costs a total of 2 Euros (approximately $2.60) for 200 grams (close to half a pound). While in the States, this same cheese costs $20 per pound, nearly four times as much! Now, tell me how that makes sense? Are people seriously willing to pay this? Apparently they are, but because of the price difference, I cannot bring myself to pay $20 per pound for St. Albray. It simply isn’t that rare or exotic! I’m sure many people feel this way about paying $5 for 200 grams of any cheese (domestic or foreign), but there’s something to be said about the pleasure of sitting down and eating some good cheese.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4hM1mWPfalc/T2v8wSUDNcI/AAAAAAAABlk/3XEBqvnnk7k/s1600/IMG_0505%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4hM1mWPfalc/T2v8wSUDNcI/AAAAAAAABlk/3XEBqvnnk7k/s400/IMG_0505%5B1%5D.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, if you think I’m overreacting when it comes to cheese and should just settle for the typical 2 pound baby loaf of Tillamook cheddar, perhaps you are right. Or perhaps you are missing out on one of the great joys of life. My challenge to you: break down and spend $5 on some good, creamy, aged goat cheese, and enjoy it with a bit of bread and some of your favorite wine after your next home-cooked meal of steak, potatoes, and fresh green beans. Precede the meal with an aperitif (this could also be your favorite wine) and follow the cheese portion with a bit of chocolate and a nice cup of good espresso. Then tell me the French are wrong, and I should quit complaining.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Let them eat McDo<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">My first stop in Boise once I returned? The Boise Coop. This haven of all things delicious promised to provide me with the cheese I desired, the wine I craved, and the baguette that rounded everything out. I quickly accepted the price of the wine, which stood around the same price as others ($10). I balked a bit at the price of cheese, but when it came to the price of baguette, I stood stunned, interrupting the flow of foot traffic from the cheese/bread section to the produce. I stopped, physically shook my head, and started muttering to myself. I could not believe it. Who, in their right mind, would pay $3-4 dollars on up for a baguette?! It wasn’t even warm! As I have searched around, I've realized that the problem is not isolated to the "pricey" Boise Coop, rather all around town baguette stands at around $3 for a fresh (that day, not that hour) loaf. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I’m no baker, but I know flour, water, and yeast for a loaf the size of a normal baguette is nowhere near $3. Baguette is something bought daily and fresh and is a requirement for every meal in France, so I would image if the price of baguette rose to $3 a loaf (most families take 2 for dinner), it would be the beginning of the next French Revolution. Women would once again march down the street demanding a lower price for this daily staple. Bricks would be thrown into the windows of bakeries and bread would be stolen and horded (though it would only last a day without getting too stale or chewy). So, what does it mean for America, when a hamburger at McDonald’s is cheaper than bread? Why are we not up in arms?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For those that are scratching their heads about my obsession with baguette. First, I’m surprised to see you have read this far. Second, the French baguette has a very unique characteristic, and if these $3 loaves in the States even compared to the quality and freshness of a true baguette, I might consider paying $3 for an occasional indulgence. But! The problem I’ve found is that not only are these baguettes $3 a piece, they are not nearly as delicious.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, what does it mean for me and adjusting?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Constant cravings.</div></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817732563145377093.post-44149669340329452452011-12-31T17:05:00.000-07:002011-12-31T17:08:32.121-07:00Little Giraffe: a book inspired by my students, travels, and neice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Over the course of the past year, I endured Korea, through the good and the bad. I made friends, taught English, and rediscovered my passion for teaching and making art. During my summer vacation, I started working on my own Eric Carle style book. I had been inspired by <a href="http://kimberlykorea.blogspot.com/2011/08/art-class-in-ulsan-eric-carle-style_28.html">my students' books</a> and had rediscovered an interest in creating my own children's book.<br /><br />Based on my family and travels, the story <i>Little Giraffe</i>&nbsp;chronicles Little Giraffe's quest for pieces to an unknown object. She travels to many places I have been to and loved.<br /><br /><table bgcolor="#FFFFFF" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td align="center" width="160"><a href="http://www.bookemon.com/book-profile/little-giraffe/161881"><b>Little Giraffe</b></a></td></tr><tr><td align="center">by <a href="http://www.bookemon.com/member-home/kimberlyeron/157685"><i>Kimberly Cochrane</i></a></td></tr><tr><td align="center"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bookemon.com/book-profile/little-giraffe/161881" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Little Giraffe" class="square" height="320" src="http://www.bookemon.com/get_file.php?file=bth_1a/b595b59c019878264041a76f871ce05e_t1.jpg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-image: initial; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i></div>Kimberly E. Cochranehttps://plus.google.com/103239439885912990930noreply@blogger.com0